


Ruling Power

by Radiolaria



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, F/F, First Time, I like experimenting okay, Michael going on a sex journey, Relationship Negotiation, Sort Of, Vaginal Fingering, Workplace Relationship, Workplace Sex, but with feelings, the first part is like slices of life but with sex, will switch to Explicit later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-20 16:49:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17625980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radiolaria/pseuds/Radiolaria
Summary: Everything is new, Michael thinks, the compromises, the closeness, the sex. Being in a relationship with someone she works with so closely is a fascinating experiment. But she could do without how utterly confounding her desires are, how confusing discussing them are, how incomprehensibly lovely Philippa is at all times.Things are heating up on theShenzhou’s bridge, and Michael learns about Philippa, a little, and herself, a lot.





	1. A Long Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nomisunrider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomisunrider/gifts).



> A big thank you to [nomisunrider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomisunrider/pseuds/nomisunrider) for her patience, help and beta.
> 
> Now you will know why I never write smut. I am too talkative to do so.
> 
> It sorta happens in the same verse as _Cretan Holiday_.

_Do you trust me, Michael?_

_I do._

Philippa falls and the smirk on her face causes Michael’s skin to burst aflame.

Thirty meters that Michael is technically travelling with her at excessive, perilous speed. Yet, she can see nothing but the spark in her friend’s eye, can feel nothing but the delicious strain across her abdomen and the sizzling sensation inside her lungs.

The point of contact, Philippa’s fingers around her wrist, is insufficient to abate her.

It has been one month and six days since they agreed to amend the qualifier for their relationship from platonic to romantic.

There has been much work to do on the _Shenzhou_ , off the ship, and many discoveries to make in their relationship beside sex. But Michael wonders, and wonders _now,_ about the intricacies of desire, while free falling with her captain toward the hastily synthetized bio-foam mattress intended to catch them.

The impact knocks the air out of her, for a second, before Philippa’s exclamation of joy brushes her ear, delighting and perplexing her all at once. It kindles a reaction she believed had been relegated to the gym and her past unanswered yearning.

Unprompted, Philippa rolls on her side and coils a fresh hand around her nape, assessing her status in a wordless, affectionate look. If Januzzi was not here to drag her out of the rippling mattress and sit her on an overturned statue, Michael is not certain her self-control would prevent her from arching into the burning touch.

“Everything alright, Burnham?” Januzzi asks out of habit more than concern, his eyes on the scanner as he auscultates Michael.

On the other side of the mattress that Jira and Gant are laboriously collapsing for transport, Nambue performs a similar exam on Philippa, with more obvious discontent on his part. Philippa smiles, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and nods without a word to what Anton is grousing at her. She appears serene.

Michael does not feel serene.

From previous conversations, Michael knows Philippa enjoys sex, and her physical reactions to Michael suggest she would enjoy it with Michael _specifically_. Michael herself has known for years now that her attraction for Philippa is of sexual nature in part.

Sex is a predictable, sought outcome to their courting, and Michael is in no rush to press the issue, but the correlation between her sudden surge of desire and their circumstances on the steps of a burning ancient hotel in the forests of Rava°il escapes and frightens her.

“Michael?”

Januzzi’s hand on her shoulder snaps her out of her haze, and she shakes her head to appease the burning sensation across her cheeks.

“Sorry, Lieutenant. The jump came as a surprise.”

His eyes linger on her for a moment, concerned, professional, before curving with his smile.

“ _Commander_ ,” and in his mouth her rank sounds inexplicably like old Earth standard _kiddo_ , “she should ask before pushing you off a building. Bio dust in the lungs, sleeve up, you need an antiviral.”

“She did,” Michael accepts the hypo and presses it against her skin, tensing when the injection breaks the epidermis. “She always does.”

His warm laughter is lost in the whip-like deflating sound coming from the mattress behind. Keyla’s curse in German fails to be translated to standard and Philippa answers something that prompts a huff from Saru sounding suspiciously like hilarity.

“Of course she does,” Anton tuts without harshness as he packs away the medical supplies. “You enjoy jumping off buildings with her far too much to decline. Beware of her setting something on fire for your pleasure only, Spider Woman.”

After a pat on her back, he helps her to her feet, despite her not needing the hand. With the years, his boisterous attention has grown into a pleasant camaraderie, reassuring because so easily distracted. He remains unaware of her connection to the captain.

From the other side of the plaza in ruins, Philippa casts her a questioning glance as they are all ushered toward different shuttles.

Nodding, Michael offers reassurance; she is sound, although it is too broad a statement, but it will suffice for now. On the _Shenzhou_ time is of the essence. They are not its master. Space is rarely theirs as well; shared, requested, negated. Even now, two aircrafts are not enough to make the evacuation of a whole team of archaeologists and an away team comfortable.

Later, when they are safe on the ship _,_ and Saru has stopped haranguing about how a commanding team should not make his life as difficult as they do, Michael steals her hand behind the backs of Januzzi and Detmer, and past a sharp turn in the hallways kisses her knuckles reverently.

Ever discreet, Philippa fondly smiles, answers with greater fondness in the privacy of her quarters, but when Michael dozes off on her chest that night, she still has not solved her quandary.

Why did her desire flare in such circumstances?

It may be that Philippa has been taking a chivalrous route, completed with dates and quiet milestones, that Michael finds endearing yet unnecessary when taking into account the depth of their bond before they veered into less platonic waters. Upfront by nature, Vulcan in discipline, Michael could well be responding with arousal to the decorum.

It may be that Michael has little experience with long term, short distance relationships, her previous partners either civilians or officers posted on other ships. Sex is conditional to her sporadic encounters with chosen individuals, with the tacit agreement no binding results from intercourse. Michael and Philippa agreed early on that, as colleagues, friends, sparring partners, bonds were predating sexual intimacy. Trying to prevent them from forming would be foolish.

Perhaps romance manifests as a side effect to sex, yet there is joy and purpose in it, for Michael, for Philippa. Michael surveys its effects with a scrupulous, interested eye, although by no way impartial. Desire is a whole new object to investigate in this context. The shift is not easy to perform for both of them, and Michael burns quietly.

Being so close, familiar to the subject of her affection, Michael finds herself in the situation where she wants to pleasure _Philippa_ and receive pleasure from _her_ —has wanted it from even before she contemplated any romantic endeavour with her superior officer— rather than a potential amalgamate of attractive criteria. The quiet discovery defining their relationship so far has not cooled her fervor, on the contrary.

Philippa’s fingers brushing her wrist by inadvertence as she is reaching for the communicator.

Her skin prickling when Michael would press her body on the wall of a collapsing tunnel.

Michael’s breaths coming ever shorter when she glimpses at her back before the jacket clothes her.

Hearing her rank in Philippa’s melodious voice becomes a trial, and more than once she has uttered the word _Captain_ on the bridge in a tone that granted her a piercing side glance.

Michael would deem these occurrences a distraction, if it was not also an extraordinary exercise in self-reflection and Human relations as well. Recording herself as she does, even her rapport to the whole of her staff, down to the lower decks, has deepened imperceptibly. She grasps more easily the challenges of growing into oneself as a Human, raised in a culture where feelings and their expression are a performance, a language in itself.

Last time Gant requested to step off the bridge after a particularly noisy breakup, she did not raise her voice at him. Even quietly checked on him afterwards.

Connection, elusive until now, through stimulation and challenge.

This, more than the shelves of agreements and career plans that Commander Eider from Human Ressources has them buried under, explains her sense of security, the banality and harmlessness of a situation that her mind knows to be anything but banal. She feels a little more like them now, with her noncompliance, lack of control and _lover_.

Her attraction for Philippa is now no more a disturbing factor than _Shenzhou_ ’s halftone below standard red alert.

Which is why, with an awe not unfamiliar in the history of their friendship unfolding over years, sex comes to them in waves.

***

On the mat, Michael regularly pins a pleased Philippa after their match, on occasion even steals a kiss from her panting, grinning lips when no one is looking. She offers a prolongation to their exercise. A concession made to clarity would deprive them of pleasurable foreplay.

But then, Philippa’s husky _yes_ is swallowed by the sirens of red alert blaring across the halls.

Ready to step into an electrical ice storm, just after two crewmembers disappeared into the menacing cloud, Philippa is tightening the belt on her protective suit and ensuring her helmet is solidly attached. Her focus does not waver one instant, so uncertain is the outcome of their expedition, but Michael still asks, because it _burns_ her, has been burning her for a while, “Would you be disposed to have sex with me?”

Philippa’s jaws go slack as Januzzi gives them the all clear, and they take one step into baby blue pandemonium. Michael gets her answer in sign language not a minute after, an enthusiastic _yes_ , even if somewhat curtailed by the prowling creature under the ice.

In the privacy of her quarters, they chat after hours over herbal tea and pretend their lighthearted assessment of the latest envoy is not gossip. The night is lingering, encouraging Michael to rest her head in Philippa’s lap and inquire about what helps her relax.

Kisses, massaging her back, the weight of hot skin over her breath, and the reminder they have an early shift in the morning.

Sometimes they do not properly see each other for days, weeks. Even so, they find the time to be together.

There is no first time, not really.

Philippa is sitting naked on her bed, the light from the dwarf star beyond the bay painting her body iridium. Speech fails Michael, halted not at her lips, that she imagines already tracing soft skin, but in her lungs, boiling.

Michael stares.

“It is merely a body, dear,” Philippa whispers, causticness underlain with apprehension.

“It is _yours_.”

Her eyebrow remains unimpressed, but her eyes roam Michael’s still clothed form, softening, furrowing at the sides with unstated appreciation.

“May I?”

Michael arches an eyebrow, trying as she might to conceal her eagerness, “Yes.”

Philippa undresses her reverently with slow hands, while Michael gets lost in the study of the beauty spots, wrinkles, tendons within reach. Each patch of skin revealed is accompanied by praise for her arms, her breastbone —Michael chuckles—, her thighs, and the litany drips into her ears until the world is cotton wool.

The absence of heat from Philippa’s hands on her body pulls her from her reverie. Her mouth is hanging slightly ajar, and Michael leans forth to press a soothing kiss on her lips.

Breath faint across her skin, Philippa squints her eyes shut, “Oh, gods, you are young.”

Her head ducks, evading. Michael pushes her cheek against her hair and runs a soothing hand up her ribcage.

“You are beautiful.”

Philippa huffs, voice unsteady, “My line.” After a beat, “You deserve something more beautiful.”

Michael is startled by the confession.

A few years back, Michael would have found her lack of confidence incomprehensible, unappealing even, but Michael has seen, learned so much since she boarded _Shenzhou_ for the first time. Philippa is not a monolith of experience, someone finished. Much like her, she is changing, learning. Baring her diffidence constitutes a step, and one whose undertaking by her side fills her with gratitude.

Her own agitation upon kissing Ella from Betazed comes back to mind, the chasm of their experience and worldview, an empath and a…

Barely Vulcan, not simply Human. And Philippa is Human; that breadth of heart and weakness, all hers. Theirs.

Through the curtain of dark hair, Michael cups her face and angles it up, looking deep and soft into her eyes. The want there, glazing over fear, makes her feel powerful; having this effect on people, on Philippa particularly, is an object of marvel, just as the woman before her.

“I _want_ you.”

In time, Philippa’s shiver does not express uncertainty.

Under Michael’s fingers, her cheek, her lips, the scars round to become flesh, the imperfections solidify to weigh like tributes. Philippa is hard under her touch, strong and challenging, and it leaves Michael overwhelmed by her softness with her, the tenderness and warmth she pours in her carefulness. Not that Michael has expected Philippa to be anything but infinitely soft, quiet as not to miss any of Michael’s wishes. Every cry answered so promptly, with such control and expertise that a voice in Michael’s mind niggles, conjectures over what being bonded with a Vulcan might feel like.

But Philippa is… Philippa. In that respect, her attention has not shifted from how accommodating it was before.

Philippa is easy to follow, easier to lead.

“You don’t like when I use nails,” Philippa asks out of the blue once, as they are both working in her quarters, Michael on the redaction of a request, Philippa on mission follow-up.

Recalling the impression made in her shoulder a few days ago, Michael grimaces. It had been a minute accident, and the report that Philippa had to write afterwards has been more painful than the scratch.

With a look down from her PADD, she rearranges the pieces of speech she has ready for Philippa. Despite knowing this is merely a case of different tastes, different colors, recognizing that the appeal of strength does not translate in such a manner and that she cannot share it with Philippa frustrates her to some extent.

“I find you attractive when you are bloody,” she ventures.

Philippa says evenly, features soft and frank, “But you don’t enjoy having your skin broken.”

“No.”

The base of her nose around the bridge creases good-naturedly, “I was making sure.”

“You were not before? You apologized profusely last time.”

“I did but…” Philippa hesitates, brows knitting, and Michael narrows her eyes.

She knows that face and it foretells much joy for her.

“What is it?”

“Well, I don’t know what to make of it, but you do—” Philippa scrambles on her knees across the bed up to Michael’s chest and gestures toward her arm. “Can I? I won’t hurt you, I am just trying something.”

Michael nods, curiosity piqued.

Philippa runs the edge of her nail over Michael’s forearm, with just enough control as not to leave a trace, but the pressure is there, thin and sharp. Unmistakable frissons take hold of her body.

Dark wide eyes question her, “Is this pleasurable for you?”

“Like this, yes, it is. Very much. I enjoy micro stimulations.”

Typically, the subject does not come up with her partners, for lack of time and consequential repetition, and Michael finds unequivocal satisfaction in giving pointers.

Yet, she suspects there is an upside to knowing one’s lover.

“It requires precision and patience,” she adds for good measure. “Are you up to the challenge?”

Philippa’s smile creeps on her face, gradually, covetously, and Michael can almost make out in its slope the strategies she is planning to enforce across her body. In two hops, she draws closer to Michael reclining against the pillow and leans in to press a slow kiss to her lips.

“Well, I enjoy waiting for you,” she breathes against her mouth.

There are behaviours she expects, like Philippa’s taste for impromptu, _prolonged_ cuddling during foreplay —Michael surmises working under pressure might even be arousing to her, given the strictness of their schedules—, others that took her by surprise, like teeth, the befuddling amount of teeth and nails required to make Philippa peak.

She had one partner in the past who would enjoy such stimulation, Yll on Aspen colony, and matters went in a quite different direction then. Philippa is inspiring. Truly, the infinite diversity of people fascinates Michael, just as much as it astounds her. Michael grows comfortable with using it as a way to express affection, a point made by Amanda that had escaped her to an extent before. She is making connections, in herself.

Her relative inexperience is less of an acknowledgement of defeat than an acceptance of complexity. On Vulcan, passion and sex were codified, unknowable. In space, here with Philippa, it is everything but.

Michael does not experience self-consciousness, but she does bewilderment, and often. The closest she comes to shyness is when Philippa kisses and nibbles her stomach, and she just about moans in the middle of what was merely an affectionate snuggle encouraging her to return her quarters.

Michael rolls on her side and hides her face in the crook of her arm, “ _Mph_. It is embarrassing.”

In her back, Philippa’s laughter sounds stunned, but kind. The mattress sinks near her and a gentle hand wraps around her waist.

“It’s really not. It’s charming.” A light kiss lands under her ear, “I like that you are soft.”

“I enjoy that you are not,” she retorts, delighted as she digs her nails into Philippa’s gemellus muscle and elicits  a low, wholehearted moan.

Michael never left Philippa’s quarters as late as she does that night. Not exactly following their rules, but Michael feels a surge of excitement nonetheless.

They have rules, well thought out because Michael, they _, together_ , set them. Many of them are received as evident when discussed the first time; a check and balance of their respective rank and desire, Commander Eider at HR, no professional decision regarding each other in private, Amanda, no spending the night. They are efficient and natural to enforce.

Yet, it takes only one explosion on the bridge for Michael to cast aside those rules; a planetary debris shot straight from a dying white hole through the hull and barely missed the Captain’s chair. There is blood, that Michael does not find stimulating, and a stark, sobering glance that entreats her not to come any closer.

“You can touch me if the makeover is not too repulsive,” Philippa mumbles from her sofa after being released from sickbay. Nambue could not do anything for the singed hairs on her arms, and she is vacantly staring at the absent patches on the newly formed skin.

Michael does not budge from the bed.

Her voice rings harsh when she answers, “But not when we are on the bridge.”

Philippa shakes her head, tight-lipped.

Even bonded or married officers would be kept from one another in such a situation, for fear of rash actions in the face of panic. Acting in such a manner, regardless of the circumstances, is inconceivable for Michael. In the past, she proved many a time her ability to keep a cool head and perform her duty dispassionately when Philippa was in danger. Tonight, she was rushing to provide such help. Starfleet rationale for maintaining these rules —efficiency, impartiality— is sound, even if it does not apply to Vulcans.

Yet, the feeling of irritation is slow to reason through, no matter how she looks at the rules.

Philippa is the one to join her on the bed, nudging her aside to sit down. Her posture leans heavier than usual, almost slouching.

Michael does not blunt the acrimony in her voice, “They already know. Why should we _hide_?”

Philippa’s chuckle comes out muted, small and curled up as she sits, “HR know. Shockley and Nambue know. Saru is supposed to know, but I am not sure he grasps the implications.” Her eyes shine dark and warm, amused despite the strain in her voice. “It does not mean the entirety of the bridge has to be privy to it.”

_Understandable, yet—_

A lot of their work, particularly after Michael became First Officer, required of her to be accustomed to her body in relation to Philippa as if it was her own: assessing her state of tiredness and offering to take over, grabbing her hand with enough strength to haul her out of a collapsed road, and obeying her orders. A lot of her work as her lover required vulnerability, expression, risks taking that she ought to find in Philippa as well.

This _feels_ like dodging.

Looking away, Michael chews the inside of her lips before asking, “How do you feel about our compromises, Philippa?”

“In a way, uncomfortable. It’s like a big stamp on my records, on yours.” A smile breaks in her voice. “But comfort does not always beget happiness. I don’t regret any of the compromises.”

Michael nods, gazing at the display in the living area, a kite, books, statues. There is so much of Philippa on display at all times; her discontent or affection, her warmth and frustration. Even when she goes against Starfleet and protocols she does it openly. Respected, she is watched, so she chooses transparency. So why does Michael sense that Philippa would prefer if Starfleet did not know about them?

“Starfleet partnerships are a common occurrence according to my research.”

“So are solar storms. They are still dangerous.”

Michael’s sigh is of unabashed exasperation, and she can feel Philippa’s inquisitive eyes on her in return.

“Why do Humans fear the effects of bonding,” she probes, voice hanging higher than she desired, “yet seek it with such violence? Many cultures, some far younger, have reconciled these aspects. Vulcan ships do not follow the no fraternization rule.”

“Much good may it do them. Starfleet is different. The moment our relationship is physical it becomes far more unsavory for HR, easier for Starfleet to take issues with,” Philippa mumbles, and her features contract so very briefly Michael might have missed it. “Something about unfair treatment and emotional compromise.”

“I can assure you I can be as emotionally compromised by friendship or a lack of thereof.”

Philippa scowls frankly, “I don’t know if it’s a compliment.”

“Affection or animosity influences our rapports every day. Admiral Anderson clearly does not like you, yet he is not banned from working with you. Detmer’s often stated fondness for my person never led to HR asking her to step out. Januzzi is still working and he is bribing the bridge with parties.”

The last remark was intended to make her smile, but Philippa’s eyes are downcast, turned toward herself.

Michael inhales a careful breath before resuming, with more focus. “As much as I understand Starfleet’s concern that romantic and carnal bonds could unfavorably affect decision making, to rank them as more perilous than the ones created in friendliness or hostility is illogical.”

How dejected her expression when Philippa looks up.

“Crimes of passion existed for a reason. It is not below me to do something stupid to protect you, you know?”

Michael’s mouth falls shut. She watches as Philippa gets up and slips into her bedtime routine —herbal tea, washing her face, Michael’s book and hers. Efficient and composed.

There is little passion that night, because Philippa is as tired as she is troubled, and Michael can only hold on to her while not understanding —another thing Philippa taught her. When Michael returns to her quarters she fails to convert her frustration into any form of release or meditation.

By the time they have finished taking breakfast together in the morning, they agree that this is one belief, one fear that Philippa will need time to work through. But Michael holds her hand for as long as she can on the way to the bridge.

Michael learns to enjoy the missteps as well. Or not exactly enjoy, as they can be bitter and upsetting, but they are useful.

She never got to make useful mistakes in her previous relationships.

One night, Philippa tends to become curt when reorienting Michael on her body, and when Michael points it out, Philippa buries her head in her hands and groans in irritation. For a painful short while, it makes Michael feel small.

“Sorry, I am angry with myself, not you. I don’t feel I can do it tonight. But… You can stay, if you want.”

Finding Philippa tired at the end of the day brings her great joy; the pressure of her fingertips on her skin is more personal, as if she is shedding part of her to hang nearer to Michael. But she treasures her solitude, and the occurrences where Philippa wants to be alone and Michael wants to be alone do not always match up.

“Amanda would argue this means we are truly a couple. Goodnight Philippa. I will think about you.”

Michael grips her waist harder, kneading up her back, surveying the reactions on her face, until it twists into a painful grimace, a sharp sob. She stops immediately, panicked, and Philippa simply reaches for her hand on her middle back to guide it further down.

“Old wound. I’m okay. You couldn’t have known. You can touch me everywhere, but that spot is sensitive to pressure.”

Philippa takes her hand and kisses it and lavishes it and she guides Michael across her flank, hipbone, mound and the soft curls at the apex of her legs, and Michael feels overpowered.

“Philippa. Let me lead.”

It is startling at first —a completely new vocabulary and grammar, new sentences and modes, where Philippa, her friend but superior officer, asks _tell me_ and _show me_ , where eagerness does not match confidence level, where a leap of faith is compulsory. Michael is unsure of what to do and the feeling is devastating. Incomprehensibly exciting.

They are building an experience, centimeter of skin by centimeter of skin, learning a new language, verbs by verbs —rarely imperative in form, often auxiliary in nature. In certain kisses, certain caresses, she can discern past stories, and after a while, this caress, this bite evolves into something that is hers entirely.

Contentment settles in her chest, when she leaves the captain’s room late at night, when a particularly difficult day will lead, without fault, to a particularly pleasurable evening, when Philippa simply smiles and kisses her forehead.

She had not suspected a Human relationship could be such an extemporal happening. She likes it, and Philippa does. If she had been prone to the kind of embellishments Keyla’s novels provided as a canvas for describing feelings, Michael would have talked about binary stars, nebulae and gravitational waves.

Instead she has her impressions and hyperboles. For example, she can confidently say that dreaming awake has become common and the proficiency of her service is not negatively impacted. Even, it is heightened.

Anchored to the commands of her shuttle as she is fighting the pull of a stellar black hole, Michael grits her teeth, bracing herself despite the absence of correlation between her strength and the ship’s. Nothing but maths and physics between life and oblivion.

With one hand she requests dimensions and vectors, and starts computing. Faster than she ever has before.

Soft hair, low-energy quantum excitations carrying data remains out of the black hole, can still save her and guide her away; she only has to determine the decaying pattern expected from such a stellar body and fly tangentially.

 _Only_.

She can die.

Philippa does not talk on the intercom and she will not end communication. Michael can hear with perfect clarity her breathing over the beeping of the panels. As well as the event horizon confusing the viewscreen, there is little left in this part of the sky for Michael’s eyes to focus on anything outside while she thinks.

So, she forces her eyes to see Philippa, her preoccupied face, her warm eyes, the creases just under her hairline, the strength in her shoulders. Safe on the bridge thousands of kilometers away and waiting for Michael. Trusting that she will come back.

Michael pictures herself in her arms. She visualizes skin and muscles, the careful dance of flicks and words, their laughter and cry; the mechanics of their bodies appear so well oiled. The numbers come out faster and Michael pilots accordingly.

She won’t die tonight. She will go home and sate on Philippa’s body like she never did before.

 _Shenzhou_ picks her up on the edge of sleep, so great is her exhaustion, so blurry are the lines between her mind and reality. Philippa does not leave her side while Nambue checks on her and carries her to her quarters without much concern for discretion. Michael drifts away wrapped in her breath and her tears, and it is not what she expected from her furious last fantasies, but it beats nothingness and timelessness.

There is no chronology to the way they discover each other intimately. Or perhaps there is one, but Michael marvels at her desire not to curate it —Sande, Yll, Kassandra; dates and places, finite dots. Her relationship with Philippa differs in its scope.

The first time almost does not count because, however agreeable it is to have someone praise her beauty, she would rather Philippa let her touch her. She loves Philippa’s hands and she loves her voice and it proves a defeat to admit that she needs her mouth more.

There is a first time when Michael really, _really_ wishes to, but her fingers are forgetful and her lips friable. Philippa’s tender “we don’t have to, not now, not ever” provides Michael with all the reassurance she needs to ask her to stay the night at least.

There is a first time when they finally get two enemy tribes on a remote planet to sign a peace treaty and join the Federation, and their private, tired celebration leads to the slowest and quietest sex Michael has had in years, holding promises for more to come.

There is a first time when Michael is reading on Philippa’s bed and Philippa asks her about where, precisely, and how much, and Michael could climax from the way Philippa listens to her alone, makes suggestions, follows with her eyes the words on her body.

There is a first time when Michael comes so hard at Philippa’s hands that calling in sick the morning after appears for a brief, glorious instant to be a sensible option, and Philippa laughs beside her, and Michael furiously tugs at her hand until she is back between her legs.

There is a first time when Michael does nothing but exploring Philippa, kissing her as if to ensure the reality of the supple, welcoming body under her. The mapping happens with such minutiae that they fall asleep before completing it.

There is a first time Philippa looks at her hands wrapped around Michael’s wrist, then at Michael. She scoots up closer on her knees and starts kissing the side of her hand, eyes locked onto Michael’s. Michael sees stars like she never had before.

There is a first time when it starts on the mat and they barely make it to Michael’s quarters. Everything falls apart after they enter because Michael forgot she is currently running an experiment with floating succulents above her bed and Philippa is laughing too much.

And there is a first time when—

“May I see you, Michael?”

And there is a first time when—

“Take my hand, Philippa, now.”

And there is a first time when—

“Here, Michael, you can.”

There is a first time when her _stronger slower deeper_ become less indication for Philippa to follow and more step stones of anticipation that she sets for herself. Michael does not _have to_ tell; Philippa knows where to kiss, how to pull, what to whisper; this shared knowledge excites her more than she can tell.

And there is a first time when Michael notices the strain in her eyebrows, the tightness of her lips, the control in her cries, and the ground opens up under Michael. The tools Amanda provided her in her adolescence and the ones she acquired by herself later feel frustratingly out of reach, like Philippa.

She is used to making observations and finding answers quickly.

Now that she is cognizant of such signs, she can see nothing but them. Her questions come back and the fire still burns.


	2. In Pursuit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Keyla is very wise, Philippa less so, Michael slow on the uptake, but not as much as Jira.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry. The real smut happens later.
> 
> A big thank you to [nomisunrider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomisunrider/pseuds/nomisunrider) for the help, the beta and the cheering. A giddier one to everyone who read and enjoyed the first part!

Sex is a discipline like any other to Michael, like quantum physics, rowing, or conversation.

She suffers no fools in her bed and prefers civilian acquaintances on shore leaves, but the absence of romantic, long-term entanglements never curbed her enthusiasm. Now, the presence of such connections changes the parameters.

Beside her, Keyla has been indulging in lower decks nattering, lightly, to occupy her mind while they are reviewing micro-organism samples taken on their last incursion to the surface of _98 Lara Bb_.

From orbit, the captain along with tactical has been trying for a week to make contact with an Orion ship that disappeared in the area. The away team on the ground has found debris, charred, that indicates at least part of the ship has managed to enter the atmosphere, but so far they have not identified the landing spot.

Greater with each day arises the possibility that the pre-warp  civilization native to the planet, considered under the Federation Ban, has come upon the wreck and laid eyes on the exotic humanoids, only two at a time, materializing for a few hours in their mountains. The consequences would be devastating, even though allowing an Orion scavenger to take advantages of the planet’s resources’ would be worse.

Naturally, Philippa occupies her mind instead.

Michael pushes away a full rack of tubes and the hair at the back of her neck bristles.

In truth, she did not expect to count Philippa as a fool.

Does not want it.

Past the few hungry first times, where everything was new from Philippa’s taste to Michael’s cry, Philippa Georgiou acts by the book. It is pleasurable and efficient, yet controlled, for Michael, by Michael. Philippa appears never truly with her, watching over herself more than she is watching Michael.

As if Michael was sparring with an ill-prepared, ill-fitted opponent, and it bothers her: Philippa is not ill-fitted to her.

In many ways, she is tailor-made for Michael. Their physical strength, intellect and emotional needs are equivalent, although their specificities balance each other. Philippa’s experience and restraint make her a match for Michael’s hard-earned self-discipline, a trove on a ship full of idealistic scientists and explorers. Even Sarek declared Philippa would have made an adequate Vulcan, albeit too spirited. The remark struck Michael as incongruous, given Philippa is famed for her Human qualities across Starfleet.

But now...

Perhaps the Vulcan traits that escaped Michael in Philippa are the very same Michael lacks in the eyes of her father. It takes one to know one.

And the only reality that Michael knows with certainty is Philippa’s proffered affection and caution. They are not compatible. Michael’s emotional reaction is even less sensible.  

Ever since Michael understood that sex was important to her personal well-being, her mind, and Amanda, told her it was only natural that out of all the people with whom she will engage in sexual intimacy over her life, a handful of them will not satisfy her, that balance would have to be found, that compromises would have to be made, and that it should not keep her from sleeping at night.

It does with Philippa.

Michael’s mind is employed to the resolution of her riddle, not to the extent where her work is in any way affected, but it constitutes a challenge as great as the year-long ethical problems her teachers would give them at the Academy. Plainly, she does not have the patience to wait one year, nor the time currently.

Yet, in the middle of their highly sensitive mission, presented with the unique opportunity to collect specimen from the local flora, Michael’s mind is drifting toward flightier matters. She turns the questions and evidences in her mind, as she would a rock of unknown origin. Relationship woes are novel to her; no matter how hard she tries to reason her particular anguishes do not constitute “woes. She is confused by the signals Philippa is sending, if they are signals at all.

Last night, Philippa held her tightly and whispered sweet words in her ear after a trying shift, her touch so undemanding that emotions seized Michael; she almost forgot that she was failing to prompt a similar reaction from Philippa. Ever since she made the discovery, she has been trying to adjust her behavior —hugging more than hand holding, staying the night, biting more, even cooking—, but none of her attempts are conclusive.

She asked Philippa about it, naturally, and the answer suggests she is not even aware of this paradox.

What is Michael expecting? How is she expecting it to manifest? Needs are complex, varied from one individuals to another, and, beside bringing peace of mind to Philippa, putting to rest these questions would also help Michael greatly on her personal journey.

She needs all the help she can get.

In this context, Keyla’s lack of interest for the task at hand and its scientific importance validates her resolve.

“Would you lend me your expertise on a personal matter?” Michael asks, keeping her voice level and her hands steady on the tubes.

Keyla’s face lights up and she peeps, “Sure. I am all ears.”

She pulls up a stool and sits at Michael’s working desk with her back straight, scanning the label on a sample before putting it in the appropriate container.

Her wide, sympathetic eyes squint by way of an invite.

“I have been involved with a fellow crew member for several months now.”

If Keyla was aware of her status or wanted to know Philippa’s identity, she does  not show it. Michael has reprimanded her enough on the respect of boundaries in the past.

Her small nod, eyes still on the task, encourages Michael to continue.

“Despite expressed satisfaction on their part, and needs met on mine, I sense a certain inhibition when we are alone.”

Keyla looks up from her work, eyebrow quirked. Michael could swear her tight-lipped smile is one of satisfaction.

“Because you work together.”

Michael lets out a constricted, nervous huff. “Is it that apparent?”

Keyla does not answer, instead pushes a box of empty racks in her direction, and Michael grabs them with a sigh, aligning the thermo-case to begin the transfer and labelling. Jira should be undertaking this assignment, but Saru insisted on having half the science team on watch for his trek on-planet.

Philippa did not argue, preoccupied as she was by the elusive Orions.

“You don’t sense any sort of tension when you work together?” Keyla resumes with an air of disinterest that is too unusual to not be put on. ”Any change in the way they interact with you?”

Michael reviews the weeks and months, the tête-à-têtes, alone, with HR, the long shifts, shared thermos and pleasantries with the crew. Apart from the occasional chastising for Michael’s kissing her when no one is looking, Philippa has not changed much in her apprehension of Michael’s well-being —or anyone, really— when they are on the job.

“No. Only intercourse has been affected by this stiffness.”

Behind the empty row of tubes, Keyla turns an alarming shade of red and she squeaks, “Wait, oh my stars, you’re talking about sex?” Her red bob disappears in her crossed arms. ”Oh, no, please.”

Michael heaves a sigh, preparing to soldier on through a decisively Human bout of prudishness, “I indicated the issue was personal.”

Keyla shakes her head in the fold of her arms and perks up, aghast.

“But not _that_ …” Her hands flounce like Saru’s before rubbing the back of her head. “You don’t feel uncomfortable discussing it with _me_?”

Her sex education at the hands of Sarek and Amanda, collaborative and more argumentative than Sarek would care to recognize, had left her with a practical, ethical and exigent view on the matter. Although she never engaged in the activity as much as her peers for paucity of acceptable partners, she embraced it as part of her personal self-care regimen to the same extent as meditation or hair masks.

Some Humans are skittish toward the subject, others have a fixation, but they often fail to recognize it as what it is, an activity like any other, not universal, but certainly not out of bounds.

“Sex is nothing to be ashamed of, but if you wish for me to drop the subject, for encroaching on your identity or personal boundaries, I will.”

Years of study, of exchanges and self-improvement allow her to meet Keyla with such an answer, an acknowledgement of Keyla’s boundaries, but the lieutenant’s face does not show relief.

“I knew you would say that. It’s just---…” Hunched over the working desk, Keyla mutters under her breath in German and squeezes the bridge of her nose. “Last week, you reprimanded me for asking about your bedside reading, Michael. I was not expecting… Oh, never mind.”

She shakes herself vigorously before looking between Michael’s eyes. “Your partner is holding out on you?”

“Precisely. When I give them pleasure. I do not know how to approach this.”

Her brows pinch and a flash of comprehension passes across her eyes, “You are afraid to hurt their feelings.”

“I cannot rule out the possibility that I am the source of their guardedness. In a professional setting, their silence often indicates discontent with me.”

Keyla lets out an impressed whistle, before wincing and clearing her throat.

“Sorry. Remind me to not engage with fellow officers at home,” Keyla sarcastically replies.

Michael emphatically raises an eyebrow, “You have done nothing but.”

Despite her assurance that pilot’s are out of bound, Keyla has already gone through more tactical and communication officers than they have welcomed on the bridge.

The pilot’s mouth forms a silent _Ah_ before Keyla huffs, “Quite, it’s the replicator calling the rations dry.” Her head shakes despondently. “Ugh, how did we get here?”

Michael stiffens. It is puerile to behave like this, but she feels a hint of pride for “winning” Philippa, as Shockley crudely put it (as she should). One might consider Philippa the poster-child for Starfleet captains, respected as she is. According to Gant, Starfleet Academy teaches her evading maneuvers and strategies as if she were an extraordinary pioneer long gone. If Michael had a backlog when it came to Starfleet and its heroes, she made quick work of it during her first years on the _Shenzhou_ where each crewmember had a scarcely believable story about the captain.

One would have to live with her to accept as true the daring tales of Captain Georgiou.

Michael has no little opinion of her value as an officer, a friend, a lover, and considers herself an apt partner —which is already far more than what her crewmembers can aspire to be, if the disaster of Gant’s last date is anything to go by. How upsetting to conceive that her relationship with Philippa might go down the same _ordinary_ , calamitous path as that of Admiral Anderson and Captain Cooper.

Pulling Michael away from her reflections with a gentle hand on her forearm, Keyla smiles tightly and resumes with caution. “I am not an expert in Vulcan uses, but I have known you for three years now and I have noticed how little self-expression comes into play in your relationships.”

“My partner answers to action more than words.”

Keyla watches her carefully, gently. Inquisitive, the Lieutenant Junior Grade also carries with herself a sensitivity that has helped resolve many situations. She rarely needs to pry to impart advice; she is requested.

“Is this your analysis? Are you not letting your perception of them get in the way of actually talking? Neither of you reads minds. When I have concerns, I express them to my companion, plainly. And I create a safe environment for them to express themselves in return. Relationships can be just as scary for them.”

The words sink in, and the samples lay completely idle in their hands now. It never occurred to Michael that someone of Philippa’s age and assurance might not have mastered the minutiae of being in a relationship. And perhaps, even, the many existing ways to please her lover, to communicate with her, are dwarfed in numbers by the infinite diversity in relationships. Everything that was new to Michael could have been new to Philippa as well.

It stuns Michael for a good thirty seconds. In times like these, she wishes more than anything for the sensible laws of Vulcan to apply to her.

Michael starts, tentative, “But if part of the issue stems from my understanding of our relationship, would it not be preferable to solve it on my own first?”

“ _Nah._ Work toward a solution together.” Keyla looks at her pointedly. “There is only so much you can do alone, Specialist, and a relationship ain’t it.”

_She is right._

Looking back at the past year, months, Michael spent more time recording, _cataloguing_ sensations and feelings than she was being in a relationship, with Philippa. Part of it is the reality of the job on the _Shenzhou_ ,—rare personal time, long hours—, the other part is… _her_ . An element eludes _her,_ and _Philippa_ , not Keyla, not her, will provide it.

For a minute, they manage to go back to work on the samples before them, filling the containers and labelling them accordingly.

Michael’s mind is brimming with wonder, with curiosity. Creating a safe environment and taking the lead; they are tasks she can accomplish in many different circumstances. To apply it to a heart to heart would not be such a stretch. Philippa used it on her in the past; Michael merely ventured this was Philippa being herself, rather than putting her at ease and inviting confidence.

The faltering of her fingers on the case is impossible to fight, and her lab partner has the good sense not to comment and carry on with her sorting.   

Keyla waits until they have stacked everything under Saru’s desk to timidly enquire, “Do I need to arrange a situation in which you two are left alone in an electrical cupboard?”

With a glance at the hour, Michael gets up to bring the rest of the samples. “Commander Eider would have a fit.”

“Eider would be as distressed with _Shenzhou_ ’s captain and first officer at daggers drawn.”

Michael stops in the middle of the lab and stares in shock at Keyla, who holds her gaze, the ghost of a knowing smile on her lips. They need to have a talk about boundaries again, but Michael understands that Keyla earned something tonight. _Friendship_ is a word for it.

“Far from it,” Michael replies after an eternity.

“Good. Prove it. Break all of Vulcan’s rules. Talk to her.”

The assurance in her tone, the clarity of her words, is remarkable when compared to the fidgeting talkativeness of her first years. One wonders how Keyla gained this confidence.

Michael bites the inside of her cheeks before joshing, “How can you provide sound advices, yet fail to maintain a relationship for longer than an engine check?”

Just like that her façade shatters into a comical pout. Keyla grumbles something under her breath and gets up to head over to the storage room where a sizeable selection of roots is still waiting for them.

“Keyla,” she calls out.

“I know, I know. _Discretion_.”

“I wanted to express my gratitude. Thank you.”

The young woman waves off a hand, and Michael cannot help the smile tugging at her lips.

 

***

This is _their_ bed.

Not hers. Not Philippa’s.

The Consul on the _TRAPPIST-1d_ outpost did not offer them separate rooms, busy as he is welcoming the refugees from the defunct _USS Caligari_ now drifting dead in space. Neither Philippa nor Michael corrects him and requests different accommodations.

It would be improper given the circumstances. With one look, Michael and Philippa agreed.

The Orion scavenger did manage to escape with unidentified matter, but his damaged ship could not withstand wrap and dropped him and his unstable cargo right on the nose of a cruiser. It fried on impact. The casualties at this point are still being counted, but Michael experiences relief in knowing that, thanks to Philippa and her negotiations, the Cardassian Consul and his staff arranged to house the castaways for the time being.

Given the nature of the material extracted from _98 Lara Bb_ , they are currently undertaking decontamination in the quarters they could repurpose. _Shenzhou_ is up there, assisted by the _Dirac,_ in securing the contaminated debris and ensuring evacuation. Consul Rekk’a insisted that they would stay, but it is not an act of benevolence; they are insurance for the suspicious Consul, Michael is aware. Luckily, _TRAPPIST-1d_ is also isolated from the Cardassian fleet and currently inhabited by Federation officers.

Rekk’a ramped and raged and sneered, but she had no choice. They are safe, even if a little snug.

The room is excessively compact and bare, just about a cabin on a third class cruiser; everything is pre-fabricated, thought-out for energy and space saving on the unwelcoming surface of _TRAPPIST-1d_. But there is a narrow retractable counter, a few sturdy shelves and a bulky two-place bed.

Philippa is lying on her back, eyes closed, showing very little of the exhaustion she should be experiencing.

A misshaped kettle adorns one of the empty shelves and with it two cups and items that resemble teabags. Falling into familiar patterns is just about within reach for tonight, so thin Michael’s mind feels after a trying day.

“Can I interest you in some tea?” Michael calls, already picking up her finding for inspection.

Philippa cracks an eye open and croaks, “Is Cardassian tea safe for Humans?”

“Their stomach lining is similar to ours, particularly in their teens to early twenties, although their intestines…” Philippa is glaring at her from her reclining position and Michael cannot help her smirk. “I have tasted different varieties in the past and they did not kill me.”

The teabag, for lack of a better word, diffuses a sweet, zesty smell, not dissimilar to lemonade.

“This is Oceanleaf tea,” she offers as reassurance.

“Would I enjoy it?” The pleasantness in Philippa’s tone suggests she is teasing more than asking; Michael revels in the warm sensation developing inside her chest. For all her hesitations about their sex life, nothing else has changed. If all else fails, her friendship with Philippa is sound.

Philippa finds comfort in being around her.

“Now is the time to find out.”

As Michael is operating the primitive contraption, she mentally thanks Amanda for teaching her how to make tea the old-fashioned way. Within seconds, the sound of water boiling fills the air, and Philippa rises to activate the ventilation system.

She crouches toward Michael on the edge of the bed and accepts the steaming beverage with a quiet _thank you_. In her hands, the cup sits warm and familiar; despite the oddness of the material. Michael leans against the door and observes the repetitive motions of Philippa’s teabag in the water.

A woman of small rituals sits before her, worn down not by some audacious escapes, but by messy, vicious negotiations that granted them this narrow room and short rest. Philippa is lost in thoughts, an absent smile dancing on her lips; her collar gapes open, her feet stand wide apart on the ground. The banality of the scene in the grandiosity of the circumstances —manhunt, exploration, evacuation, hostile species— satisfies Michael’s sense of beauty, almost religious in nature.

Philippa takes a sip and hums with contentment, “Now, if only we had bothered Consul Rekk’a for biscuits.”

The taste does not match what she remembers from her childhood, a sweet dark liquid in a gaudy cup that her maternal grandmother bought her at an intergalactic fair, but the approximated aromatic heaviness of the beverage pleases her.

“Should we go on the war path for Cardassian muffins?” she asks between two mouthfuls.

The groan that escapes Philippa’s lips could constitute an answer in itself, but she tousles her fringe for effect and declares gravely, “I am not leaving this bed until tomorrow morning.”

Shaking her head, Michael grins and arches an eyebrow, “Now, that sounds like an invitation, _Captain_.”

Something shifts behind Philippa’s eyes, like deep currents in the water. She puts her cup on the floor at the bed’s end and leans against her leg to get up. The two steps separating Michael from the bed take very little time to travel, but anticipation builds inside Michael’s chest.

“ _Philippa_ , please. The captain is too tired to make an appearance now.” Her voice sounds rasping, more prone to laughter and sighs than usual. In her eyes, the well-known awe-struck fondness that gratifies Michael so.

Reaching for Michael, her hand hovers in midair, silently asking. Michael places her hand around her waist and relaxes immediately into her touch, pulling her in for a tight embrace.

 _Oh, heavens_ , they smell like disinfectant.

Philippa’s laughter springs in her throat, where Michael can feel it rumbling, reverberating in her own bones, alive and exhausted, at the end of dedication and etiquette. They must look like castaways more than Starfleet officers right now, scraggly and hugging. Philippa’s badge is covered in a yellow sticky powder that Rekk’a’s staff argued was indispensable for their survival. It feels nice though, not to have that badge between them.

Michael thinks _this is Philippa_ _too_ and it clicks.

In spite of her famed warmth, the captain is wound in safeguards, an amalgam of protocols, diplomacy and experience that keeps her from letting her emotions and attachments interfere with her job, an admirable trait for a Vulcan.

But Philippa is not Vulcan, and Michael does not enjoy her company for the traits she shares with Michael’s Academy colleagues, on the contrary.

It is an _armour_ that Michael would wish to take off, because what is underneath is a most attractive, fascinating woman.

Her lips press together, tightly, before she releases her words. “Are you afraid of me, Philippa?”

The arms around her come loose and Philippa leans back to watch her, eyes wide and brows furrowed. She purses her lips briefly before drawing in a slow breath, “No. Why would I be?”

“You are guarded around me.”

“I am cautious, but not of _you_.”

There. _Wary_.

“I want to protect you,” she adds, and her hand folds around hers, gentle, querying.

“I am not made of glass. You have preconceptions about Vulcans,” Michael states, unemotionally. “Projections about the needs of a woman of my age, education, abilities, rank.”

Philippa sighs, “Self-imposed barriers I am reasonable to maintain, under the circumstances.”

“Reasonably, not logically.”

Their hands part, not of Michael’s volition.

“You are protecting me at the expense of enjoying being with me. Your choice of affectionate display within the context of our romantic relationship does not match the one in our friendship. This is highly confusing.”

“You are doing very little to make this situation less confusing right now. What are you talking about _precisely_?”

“I have observed certain inhibitions while we have sex. I cannot explain them from a woman of your experience and emotional maturity.”

Philippa blows her cheeks before passing a hand on her hair and, embarrassed, begins to walk the room, Michael’s attentive gaze on her.

Philippa does have a point though; by her standards, Michael is going about it a convoluted way. Pre-conceptions are not logical and they should be argued through and confronted with reality. It would not be the first time Philippa and she amicably debate over a mutually enjoyed activity. Why does it bother Michael so?

“I am sorry. I am enjoying every second I spend with you, Michael,” Philippa starts, arms falling to her sides. “Never doubt it. I cherish them, as I cherish you.”

Her eyes bore into Michael, still warm, still inviting, but her mouth is a thin concerned line.

“But I know how this works. Despite HR’s assurance that paperwork is enough of a safeguard, there are risks for you, and me, and I am not willing to gamble on your future, your emotional well-being, because the way I express my affection could undermine your position or agency.”

“We talked about it; I understood. Yet your caution extends to when we are alone, to when we have sex,” Michael says frankly. “You do not show such reserve when we are on the dancefloor. Your _bachata_ suggests much more abandon.”

Philippa snickers, alleviating the tension in the atmosphere temporarily. “You’ve extrapolated my sexual habits from my dancing? That is new. I did not know you had fantasies about me.”

_Oh._

Both Sarek and Amanda agreed that sex was not _exactly_ like rowing or calculus. With Philippa, Michael needs it to be very different from what she experienced before.

Because she has expectations, _fantasies_.

Michael often picks her partners in regard to a preconceived canvas of desirable traits; she built such a canvas _on_ Philippa instead.

Philippa places her hand on Michael back and starts drawing small, uncertain circles, one, two times, before she talks, “I thought I had it under control, to be honest.” She draws in a long breath and looks down, shaking her head, only to set her eyes onto Michael’s, bared. “Relationship jitters. Really. You would expect me to be so much better at this, wouldn’t you?”

Philippa is looking for her words, with reason, and Michael lets her, tongue-tied before the effects of a simple question. Keyla deserves a commendation; failing the sociology section of her aptitude test last time must have been a fluke.

Because Michael has been _projecting_.

When they started what Michael saw as a natural continuation of their sparring, or their chess games, or their flight simulations, she expected something else. Captain Philippa Georgiou’s life has been adventurous, bold and romantic to the extreme.

Was it so ill-advised to assume the same passion and fearlessness would fuel her romantic life?

She would surpass herself on the mat, work her mind to a furious state of focus above the chequered metal, leaving Michael’s mind buzzing with stimulation and elation, but in the privacy of her quarters, in this empty room, she was more aware than a Vulcan.

And now, Philippa is letting this awareness recede, in waves, with that proud chin jutting forward and her jaws working. The evidence of struggle, of efforts on her part is oddly reassuring to Michael.

“I want to make you as happy as I can, more even.” Her attention is on the grey ceiling of the room. For once, her words hold more weight than her actions. “But I am…”

Michael presses a palm across her forearm and tugs her closer, the absence of resistance from Philippa a sign of how trying the confession is.

“Philippa, please, tell me.”

Philippa heaves a deep, harrowing breath and rests her head into the crook of Michael’s neck. Her voice is small as a leaf and just as faltering. “I am terribly afraid to hurt you, to betray you.”

Michael’s eyes fall shut. She has been blindsided about Philippa’s assurance.

The last time she was this remarkably wrong about something, she believed her feelings to be unreciprocated.

_Starfleet myth, really?_

Her observations and deductions misled her. The evidence that the parameters of their relationship does not fit into her preconceptions vexes her, the surprise she had preconceptions about a romantic and physical relationship with Philippa vexes her.

Her relationship with Philippa is not merely part of a routine, it is imbued by her desires and dreams, an expression of them.

“I did not say our time together deprived me of joy,” Michael rasps, more troubled than ever. “I was concerned. You never showed such dread on the chess board. Why would you when we are alone in your room?”

Leaning back, Philippa considers Michael for a moment; her hand skims up her collarbone, fingers hovering under her jaws, until they settle around her neck to stroke lightly. Her intelligent, earnest gaze is all the more empowering to bear when it rests on her with such assurance.

One thing Michael can be sure of; Philippa does not fear her.

“I am not infallible.” Philippa’s eyes settle on a spot near her chin. “I know how important Starfleet is to us both.”

Michael stiffens, ready to contradict her, but Philippa brings her hand to her elbows, drawing her closer, running her fingers soothingly across her forearms.

“This is not an admission of defeat, my love,” she murmurs leaning into her, only emphasizing how extraordinary the setting for such gestures. They are on the job, on call, on display. “In order to prevent myself for thinking of us as a couple at work, I thought I needed to keep a closer watch on my heart when we are alone. I can see how pursuing an uninhibited grand romance with your direct superior is enticing but… Michael, we’re hardly in a holonovel. If this is to work, being cautious is the least we can do. And I want it to work.”

Michael’s breath hitches in her throat when Philippa’s palm comes to rest near her heart.

“I am afraid, and it did translate into unnecessary cautiousness,” Philippa continues, her voice barely a whisper. “I can see that, I do.”

She looks intently into her eyes, making sure she has her attention before continuing, “I have never engaged with a fellow officer affected to the same ship, let alone with a _protégée_ , in a twenty-five-year-old career. And you are younger than me, shamefully so.”

Michael opens her mouth to talk, but Philippa gently nudges her ear.

“My shame, Michael. Not yours. I’ll get there, on our terms, naturally, but it will require time and work, because that level of emotional availability asks for endurance more than it does passion.”

A fragile breath escapes her lips.

“And I have passion. But I have learned some things take time. So please, wait for me just a little longer?”

Michael nods, taken aback by the raw emotion straining her features. Philippa has always shown much more than she has said, words kept for promises and oaths. But she is also in control, of her own accord, and there is little control in the succession of apprehension, adoration, challenge kindling her eyes.

Her voice breathes earnestness when she whispers, “I am sorry for letting you believe you were less loved than you are.”

Up close, her mouth twitching at the words feels like a flutter. Michael wants to enclose it.

“So am I,” she exhales loudly, looking for strength in Philippa’s eyes. “For setting myself for disappointment.”

Philippa quirks an eyebrow, slighted.

Michael weighs her words, “I may have underestimated the potency of fantasies and how it affected my assessment of our relationship. Honesty and lack of pretense are key, and I failed to discard certain biases before engaging with you.”

Philippa’s head tilts amusingly. “You don’t have to confess to any wrongdoing. This isn’t how it works.”

“It is merely something I figured out on my own and that I find informed the way I read your behavior. I am aware of my limitations when it comes to romance, of the disparities in our experiences, but you generally trust me with taking care of my faults or asking for help on my own volition.”

“Okay.” Philippa frowns in confusion, considering Michael’s words with great interest. “Do you want my help in figuring out those faults of yours that I am very surprised exist at all?”

Michael nods without a word. Here she was naively thinking this issue was sexual in nature. Relationships are complicated, but taking these steps to communicate, to offer support and room to be uncomfortable is intensely gratifying.

“Thank you.” Philippa laughs quietly. “As far as spats go, this was a proficient one.” Her head bows, and she presses her lips together before asking, “May I ask what fantasies?”

A fascinating discussion to have but later, when Michael takes the full measure of everything she observed and learned today.

“I did not even know I had fantasies.”

Philippa huffs, pushing her forehead against Michael and bringing a hand to her nape, pacifying. Michael hums in response and delights in the comforting closeness. They are no more seeking to find strength in each other, but sharing a moment.

“I, for one, enjoy that you made such a discovery,” Philippa murmurs. “You can talk to me about them whenever you want to.”

“We ought to _have fun_.” Michael breaks into an irrepressible smile at her own words, recalling her captain using the expression on many different occasions, generally involving Michael jumping from flying shuttlecrafts.

Her tone turns sober, “But in return, you will trust me to handle whatever danger you foresee for us in the meantime.”

Philippa takes a step back, leaving the comfort of Michael’s embrace and drawing a whimper from her. She brushes Michael’s fringe out of her face, delicately, and drops a weightless kiss on her fingers, before talking:

“I will and I do trust you. It is the rules and their effects that I don’t trust. I refuse to be a fool for trying to protect you from Starfleet. And myself.”

“The rules we are not following regardless?” Michael retorts. “Our relationship is the worst kept secret in Starfleet despite your weekly blackmailing session with Human Resources.”

Philippa rolls her eyes and lets go of Michael to check her communicator on the bed for news.

“ _Dirac_ is leaving for Station 59 as we speak and all passengers have been treated.” She squints fondly at Michael. ”We lost none. You did a great job.”

Walking past the bed, she looks over her shoulder and teases, “And it is not blackmail if Eider’s lawfully the one requesting reports on our dates. Not that there have been many dates to report on lately, sorry about that.”

Rummaging through the satchel brought for the night, she retrieves a small vanity case and opens a pack of wet wipes, one of which she offers to Michael.

“I argued for the intervention on _98 Lara Bb,”_ Michael counters, following Philippa coming and going across the room as she cleans her face. “May I add that I am not the one who keeps injuring herself on shore leave when we do have the time?”

Philippa gives her a dirty look and crumples the wet wipe in her hand, “ _No_ , you are the one who keeps falling asleep when I invite you to my quarters.”

“I am not asleep now and I think the only logical conclusion brought by our inability to spend time with each other is to create more occasions.”

“Duly noted, Number One.” Philippa’s beam is now radiant. “And you are welcome to create them. I will follow you. With my guardedness, screaming and kicking. But I will, I promise.”

Michael’s smile must be as wide as Philippa’s, because her friend abandons her rudimentary toilette to hurry to her side and take her hand, nuzzling her cheek against her palm.

For a minute, Michael gets lost in the sensation. Fingers replace lips and massage the pulp of her hand with precision —Philippa’s way of encouraging Michael to sleep. Eyes closed in bliss, she vaguely registers they have to meet the Consul early in the morning and that she should advise Philippa to rest as well.

“Can I kiss you?” comes out of her mouth instead.

Before Michael can open her eyes, her lips receive Philippa’s, light and soft. Letting out a shuddering breath, she leans forward to capture her bottom lip between her teeth, not gentle but demanding. She nips and tugs, playfully, until Philippa nudges her away with her nose and returns her attention in kind. A heady, searching kiss that tightens her belly and leaves little room for lingering hands and thoughts.

Philippa’s hand finds the back of her head still, raking across the short hair on her neck and Michael whimpers into her mouth. Light-hearted, they part to catch their breath, chests rising and falling in unison, eyes locked. Michael could laugh with exhilaration.

Philippa lifts a finger to Michael’s lip and caresses there. “I have been ridiculous, have I not?”

The question is genuine, despite the tone, tensing her delicate features. Michael understands this is a request for a show of vulnerability and trust, much like their conversation. She grabs her fingers and presses them on her mouth, their roughness welcome across her skin made sensitive by kissing.

“Only within reason. Being afraid of everything means you learn nothing. We have each other’s backs,” she says softly.

“Old dog, new tricks? Really, Number One, we’re here?” Her smirk grows tenfold before softening. “You are an extraordinary woman, Michael Burnham.”

Michael is about to retort something she hopes to be witty when Philippa whispers in a low, unambiguous voice: “Let me show you.”

Philippa’s lips are back on her, on her lids, her cheekbones and jaw. Michael purposefully guides them to the bed, if guiding really applies to crossing a distance of one meter twenty, and pushes down Philippa with a satisfied grunt.

Removing Philippa’s jacket, her fingers trail across the defined collarbones and sinewy shoulders. A spirited eyebrow answers her silent command to lie down, but Philippa complies, stretching on the bed and fanning out her hair.

Straddling Philippa’s thighs, Michael drives her hands up her hips, ribcage, heaving chest. Admiring. Reveling. Fingers drumming, skirting, and Philippa’s throat undulates with her body. Upon reaching her head, her fingers curled around the back of her neck and their eyes meet.

Philippa grins ruthless. In one practice motion that Michael follows like a dance step, Philippa topples her and pins her against the mattress under her.

“Are you good?” she asks, voice hushed by desire.

The attention would be commendable in other circumstances, but seated just under her pubic bone, hands resting round her waist, Philippa is not playing fair.

Michael growls, “Not while I remain untouched, Philippa.”

Philippa bites her lip and snorts.

Philippa’s hands slide under the ruffled uniform, sending shivers across her body at the first caress, stroking her thumb under her bellybutton and following the dip around her waist, fingers splayed. The obsidian eyes looking down on her are wide with pleasure; marvel is painted across Philippa’s lips as she works her way up the undershirt in slow circles. Michael gives into the tenderness, the strength of her touch and grasps at the comforter.

Philippa bends over her body to rasp inches from her face, “Lost your tongue?”

“After showing such a command of language, I expect you to pay your dues, Captain.”

Philippa pushes her hips into her and Michael swallows her moan. Her heart is drumming at an impossible pace against her ribs. Philippa trace the underside of her breast with her nails, expert, and then, with the flesh of her fingers; Michael’s spine curves into her. A thought exercise would be advised to still it by some means, as not to lose control entirely, but her senses are dulled by Philippa, her head empty.

Mellifluous, Philippa’s voice fills her world, “You were exquisitely eloquent, Number One.”

Loose waves brush her throat and the tip of her nose prods her chin, replaced by wet, open lips.

The thumping in her ears well, prodigious, and Michael has time to recognize the sound of knuckles on a door. They both freeze, panting. Philippa is quick to roll off her and crouch beside the bed, while Michael jumps to her feet.

Jira enters the room looking over her shoulder, thanking someone outside. Michael’s clothes need no more than two tugs to be put back in place, although nothing can be done for the uncomfortable wetness against her inner thighs. At the corner of her eyes, she makes out Philippa on the floor squatting over her uniform jacket and frantically shuffling.

Jira’s brown eyes scan the scenery disinterestedly and set on the bed, the narrow, now conspicuously disturbed and empty bed.

With a polite salute, she chirps, “Commanders, Consul Rekk’a informed me there was still room here.”

Philippa’s lips are nothing but a thin line when she gets to her feet from the floor, jacket impeccable, but hair a shamble. Her face is surprisingly pale given that thirty seconds ago she was hands deep in Michael’s brassiere, but it stands to reason that the ensign gave her a shock.

“You are most welcome to stay, Ensign,” she utters almost serenely. “At ease.”

“Thank you, Captain.” And with that Jira lies flat on her stomach in the middle of the bed. “I am knackered. I hope you don’t mind if I just call it a night.”

Philippa mouths an amused _sorry_ behind the ensign’s back, and Michael has a hard time not rolling her eyes as the captain dives back into the satchel in search of another wet wipe.

Michael will have to talk to her own protégée about boundaries, but she also should thank her for the interruption that has left her even more turned on than frustrated.


	3. Impact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the _Shenzhou_ is on fire, and Philippa has a thing or two to show Michael about dashing swashbucklers ravishing their lovers on deck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where it all started, almost a year ago. On a wet bridge.
> 
> Very self-indulgent sex that will leave everyone covered in bruises and with twisted muscles, but I'm sure this is part of command training. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and getting on this horny bandwagon with me.

When the sensors start blaring and the smoke rising from the bridge floor during Gamma shift, Lieutenant Januzzi jokes at first.

They all do.

Gant offers to retrieve heat-proof suits and Shockley recommends they ignore the nuisance to keep on their course to the Delta Quadrant, trusting Touko to plug in the unidentified leak.

Then, the non-toxic vapour keeps on coming and coming, billowing up from the metallic tiles and cloaking the bridge. Touko’s engineers are scratching their heads when they are not stepping out to take a breath.

Despite Saru’s reluctance and his ganglia’s conviction that everything is fine, Michael rules in favour of leaving a few officers on the bridge to effect repairs, while the personnel on duty will man the _Shenzhou_ from the emergency terminal. When they abandon the bridge, the crew in its entirety, proud Kelpien included, sports Starfleet issue undershirts soaked through with sweat and steam, and glistening faces barely containing their amusement, proud Kelpien excluded.

Under the heat, the skeleton crew quickly shrinks down to Michael in her undershirt and rolled-up pants, running diagnostics through the vapours, crawling under the bridge floor and opening panels to locate the source of the malfunction.

After six breathless minutes, feeling like a puddle on the burning tiles of a completely shut down bridge, Michael is earnestly considering bringing the interior’s temperature down to the exterior level, at least to prevent their computers’ components from melting, when the doors to the bridge whizz open to reveal Philippa Georgiou in her off-duty two-piece uniform, high-waisted slacks and a three quarter sleeve sweater.

The stifling atmosphere sits lighter on Michael’s shoulder and she chances a smile, probably lost to Philippa in the mist.

Philippa steps in and scans the room with a puzzled expression, taking in the deserted posts, the scattered uniform jackets and few trousers, evidence of the feeble and brief battle her officers have waged against the sweltering set-back. Stopping at Januzzi’s chair, dismayed, she makes a dissatisfied face before striding to where Michael is sprawling on the floor and looks down at her with unsure hope in her eyes.

“What is the verdict, Number One?”

Michael sighs and wipes her oily hands on her top before accepting Philippa’s extended grip to lift her limp body from the ground.

“The steam is water-based, with harmless traces of athenarium and lyrium. I have located the source, under Saru’s terminal, and stopped the leak from the second viewing screen cooling system causing the reaction, but I cannot identify the component interacting with the liquid in question. We could wait for the reaction to consume entirely the fluid but—”

“—it spilled for long enough to probably flood the component,” Philippa finishes, crossing her arms. “It could take some time.”

Michael nods and exhales, “I can make an interesting paper on sensors under extreme conditions out of this situation, but not find a swift workaround that does not involve vacuuming the bridge.”

Philippa grits her teeth in exasperation.

The bridge’s vacuuming system has been due for repairs for weeks now, making the _Shenzhou_ ’s stopover at Station 56 a grounding more than an optional trip. Accidentally releasing chemicals and debris in space means paperwork and _Shenzhou_ is old enough to jettison the Captain’s chair as well, which even Philippa Georgiou will have trouble explaining to the admiralty.

“At least we can devise a formidable training exercise after this incident. I’ve never seen them so reluctant to step onto the bridge.” Philippa’s indignation and hurt pride, amplified for effect, lift Michael’s spirit a little. “Narwani was cowering. They sent _me_ ; I am the _captain_ of this ship.”

“I do not blame them. They lack the constitution to handle such heat.”

Vulcan’s unique climate and heavy fashion prove an exceptional asset under the circumstances, even if the artificial humidity and stuffiness is starting to take its toll on Michael. The captain eyes her with concern, her right hand immediately leaving its familiar spot behind her back to squeeze Michael’s arm.

“Are you okay?”

“I am uncomfortable,” Michael breathes. “But working. I can sustain nine more minutes of this temperature before needing a break, a very cold one. You should not be here, Philippa.”

“Come on, it is a _little_ hot and you need all the help you can get,” she chirps, clearly challenged. “I am surprised Lieutenant Januzzi did not call it a spa day and join you in his underwear.”

An unconvinced eyebrow answers her.

Philippa starts tugging at her top to ventilate. Her skin has ventured into cautiously dewy territory. A single sweat drop born at her temple traces down a path long her left cheekbone, getting caught a second in the kiss curl on the side of her face, before running down her jaw and falling on the dark fabric, leaving an oblong, mesmerizing spot on the otherwise impeccable informal uniform.

Michael swallows thickly.

They should get a move on.

“We need to work fast,” she says coolly and throws her the protective gloves and goggles dug up for maintenance

Philippa is already striding around the console, “Have you tried manually testing the different components?”

“You mean, turning them off and on, _each_ , individually?”

From across the desk, Philippa simply scrunches her face and Michael rolls her eyes.

“I have counter arguments, many of them involving electricity and death, Philippa, but in five minutes I will be naked if we do not cool the bridge down.”

“I can see you are short on solutions,” Philippa observes with an emphatic glance over her state of undress.

The sarcastic remark is meant as jest but leaves Michael suddenly self-conscious, and she tugs at the wet tank top uncomfortably. There is little in this world that tries Philippa’s patience more than breach of uniform code and they are, despite their familiarity, despite Michael’s lack of attire, still on the bridge, on duty. Michael silently curses her own inability not to perceive the remark as a personal reprimand rather than a professional one.

Philippa’s expression softens and an apologetic squint answers Michael, “Desperate times, Michael. I understand. In fact, I will join you.” She unzips her sweater and tosses it on the chair with a flourish. “Alright, let’s fix this.”

The terminal consists of one computer, but a multitude of smaller dependent appliances are encased into the metallic desk and, since the malfunction is undetectable to the eye, activating them manually is not a wrong intuition. However, such a course of action supposes the heat is not interfering with the component’s standard behavior, and the _Shenzhou_ has not demonstrated standard behavior in any area for quite some time.

_Another experiment to conduct for another time._

Gloved up and wetter than Michael imagined spending the evening, she opens the panel facing the centre of the bridge, while Philippa is busy on the other side, crouching under the stool to untangle the wires and access the computer. Close to the floor, the steam is billowing in their face, not burning, but hot enough for them to step away for air regularly.

The devices beep one after the other, dutifully, as the women promptly isolate and activate them. Michael cannot hide her surprise before the _Shenzhou_ ’s reliability, extreme heat notwithstanding.

“She’s a tough one,” Philippa shouts from the other side of the console, almost gloating.

“There is no denying that,” Michael grumbles through clenched teeth, straining to extract a particular component from the console. “When was the last time Saru took his desk apart?”

“Nice try, but it’s wasn’t that long ago. Still, he and I have a very different definition of what constitutes proper sealing for a ship run primarily by Humans.”

Through the entrails of the desk, bathed in blue, sparkling with condensation, the captain looks like she is  having the time of her life, marking the clearance of each component with a joyous nod. The opportunity for Starfleet superior officers to get their hands dirty decreases as the rank climbs up, unless something goes terribly wrong, and Philippa enjoys getting her hands dirty.

Or she enjoys when things go terribly wrong.

The mayhem of wires spread on the floor and iridescent mists uncoiling across the bridge appears ever growing, devouring order minute by minute, taking up space typically allotted to science and discipline.

And Philippa is voraciously grinning.

The view elicits a clear reaction from Michael, a combination of satisfaction, competitiveness and attraction that she cannot explain.

_Inexact._

She can explain it in specific, physiological terms. Rationally connecting the observed effects to the reality of their situation has become more and more easy lately, with Philippa’s help.

Fantasies, prompted by a particularly graceful kick, of undressing her on the mat; visions, brought by Philippa at the helm, of pushing Philippa’s head between her legs and scream her content in the tiny shuttle. Philippa had bitten her lips then and crooned: “I only dream about holding your hand under the night sky. But your idea of a date is much more enticing.”

And now, the glint in her eyes, the tautness across her forearms, even the black strands espousing her temples… Philippa appears more desirable to her when the situation is out of control, escaping her hands as situations are wont to do in the type of holo-fiction Amanda enj—

The air just before her nose crackles and Michael cries out in surprise when the sparks heat her fingers through the gloves, sprouting haphazardly from the thin parallelepiped in her hand.

“Are you okay?” Philippa shouts, lost in the vapours.

“I am good. It’s the new borium-based panel Connor installed last week!”

Georgiou’s laughter rises, crystalline in the rustling steam, and Michael catches a glimpse of her eyes behind the wires under the console. Impish, delighted, she looks like a proper scavenger on a ride.

Her heart grows two sizes in her chest, and her skin hotter.

“Remind me never to let him introduce anything that recent to the bridge,” Philippa calls out. “Clearly, this old girl is allergic to change.”

Michael shakes her head and makes swift work of the culprit, indefinitely removing it from the console while Philippa joins her on her knees to eliminate the residual cooling fluid. Touko will need to perform an exhaustive seal check at the end of the shift and the integrity of many screens will require reviewing on their next stop, but it seems the situation is contained for the night.

“That was quick,” Michael remarks to herself, as they are contemplating the brand new but useless device in her hand.

“Don’t tell me you are embarrassed that you needed a hand to fix this? I can lie and pretend I tripped and lost consciousness the moment I stepped on the bridge.”

The chortle that escapes Michael may not become a Vulcan in the least, but it does prompt the brightest of smiles from Philippa.

“No one would believe it, Captain.”

The fog has begun to thin out and Philippa activates the ventilation to help the process. The impressive volume of steam produced for such a diminutive piece eventually begins evacuating, progressively.

The wreckage ends up in a box beside their gears and Philippa starts gathering the abandoned jackets and checking the desks for malfunction.

“I can do it, Captain.” Michael jogs to her and places her hands on the uniforms beside hers. If anything, she needs the respite to reflect. “I apologise for disrupting your evening.”

Philippa laughs quietly, affectionately, “I welcome such a disruption when it lets me see you.”

Michael tilts her head, tasting the gratification brought by the candid words.

They have not been able to exchange more than a couple of words since their briefing in the morning, an unfortunately common occurrence in their schedule for the past weeks.

Although the increase in activity before required ship docking has been familiar for Michael after six years of service, the circumstances of this particular maintenance are not. Michael does not enjoy the distance it is putting between Philippa and her so early in their relationship.

Philippa’s gaze on her, while she is crudely folding the uniforms, is fond, with an edge of amusement, that specific flicker she displays before presenting Michael with a challenge.

“I’ve missed you,” Philippa breathes.

_Oh._

The array of appropriate responses Michael could give appears before her eyes, Vulcan, Human, and a narrow slip of instinctive ones, all hers, all in-between, that could logically delight Philippa but not answer her.

Delighting Philippa has become a personal challenge of late, and Michael reflects with concern on this particular dent into her professionalism.

She does miss her, in the Human sense of the term, but she also, presently, unexpectedly, feels a very different kind of draw, irrational and inappropriate.

With a guilty smile, Philippa shakes her head and returns to proving the desks for remaining moisture and stacking the jackets on the nearest panel, “It is merely an observation, Michael. Take it. You do not have to comment or reciprocate now.”

“I—Thank you. I appreciate your words and did not enjoy our predicament either.”

“P _redicament,_ ” Philippa teases. “It was serious, then?”

The steam has almost dissipated.

Philippa’s posture is relaxed, with a grin celebrating both the ridiculousness and success of the last fifteen minutes. Michael cannot recall an occasion on which she has seen Philippa’s stance that devoid of self-consciousness.

Michael takes a step closer, far closer than anything they have agreed on when they are on the bridge, and something clicks in the pieces of sensations and slithers of thoughts Michael has been trying to imbricate for the past minutes.

Philippa must have sensed it as well because her hands fly to cup Michael’s face, granting her the intimacy at last, and she pecks her gently on the lips, chastising. It has seemingly been ages since Michael tasted her, salty and warm. Her nose brushes Michael’s flushed cheek, with the hint she is ready to push her away and go to the door. Michael is not relenting.

Her hand slides down to Philippa’s, holding her back and twining their fingers, carried by the urgency of the moment, incomprehensibly animated. Amanda has taught her long ago that her intuition, her “guts”, could be as proficient a tool as her logic.

“We should run scans on the overall temperature before releasing the bridge, and I need a shower,” Philippa suggests, distractedly.

“We should…”

On the burning bridge of the Shenzhou, slacks ungraciously rolled up over her knees and top soaked in steam, the mass of her hair sticking to her nape and temples, a cheeky and infectious grin aimed at Michael, her captain looks nothing like a Starfleet flyer, let alone hiding behind one.

The view from the deck is familiar, stars, infinity, screens blinking and her captain, her friend, her—

“I want you,” she blurts out, sensing her cheeks warm out of embarrassment when she witnesses the shock on Philippa’s face.

Yet, in an instant, Michael feels Philippa’s fingers on her jaw and an unsolicited, ravenous hiss escapes her own lips.

“Do you? This is a tempting occasion,” Philippa breathes, grave, before taking a quick look at the closed doors. “What was that fantasy of yours again? The one involving the back of the Captain’s chair?”

A strangled thread of noises draws past Michael’s lips and Philippa puckers her brows comically.

“The universal translator can’t do anything with that, Michael.”

“Yes, Philippa. _Please_.”

”This is ridiculous. And risky,” Philippa nonchalantly castigates, yet replaces her fingers on her jaw with her lips, feather-light, and Michael groans.

Her hands instinctively go to Philippa’s waist, grounding into her.

Philippa smirks against her chin, “But you are beautiful and we have a bridge at our disposal, it seems.”

“ _Had_.” Her mind is rebuffing against her desire, suddenly aware of everything it has ignored for the past fifteen minutes. “We do not have even ten minutes.”

“I can give you a lot more than ten minutes, Michael. I am the captain.” Philippa abandons Michael’s skin to look up, roguish. “Computer, control to my voice, lock the damn doors, send custom communication tau eighty-one and initiate integrity scan beta seven.”

Michael gasps, half in surprise, half in glee, as soft lips resume nibbling at the muscles of her neck, lavishing her skin with kisses, leaving no room for fear or conjecture.

“This is the extensive one,” Michael pants.

“They—are—going—to—ask—questions.” Rich blackness gazes up to her, inviting. “And we need an alibi.”

The words send electricity coursing through her body, lightning fast, while all the perplexing impulses of earlier come crashing back into her.

How can she enjoy it to such a degree, yet know with exactitude how many rules and protocols they are breaking?

_Rules..._

Michael’s voice falters, “Are you not afraid of what might happen?”

Philippa stops her ministrations to look her in the eyes and enthuses, “With you? Never. Are you comfortable with this?”

Under her ribcage, Philippa’s heart is beating steadily, her heavy breathing catches up with Michael’s and there is a distinctive, unmistakable warmth emanating from her. No fear, only arousal.

It looks amazing on her.

“I believe the expression is, _you have no idea.”_

Her eyebrows shoot up in challenge and Philippa dives back into Michael’s neck.

“How lucky we are then—to have an old ship that keeps—malfunctioning and that bursts—into flames—because of Connor’s new panel,” Michael manages between light nudges to the side of Philippa’s head, as her hands finally move to her sides, tugging at the shirt.

“Badmouthing now? The heat did not cause any of our computers to malfunction. She’s holding on f—fine.”

“They do not know that.”

Philippa snickers into her shoulder and leans back to capture Michael’s mouth, trapping her lips in a cycle of gentle tugging, gentler brushing, and her nerve endings crackle at the sensation. Leaning back to take a deep breath, she presses her forehead onto Michael’s, and Michael’s fingers tentatively graze her chin, encouraging.

“Does it make me a terrible lover if enjoying working with you sometimes makes me forget how much joy _being_ _your lover_ brings me?”

Michael suspects this is not an appropriate, human, emotional question, but it is an agreeable confession to receive from Philippa of all people. She can be confounding at times, even more so than Humans. Or Vulcans.

“My work is outstanding.” Philippa silently nods against her forehead, an amused hum on the lips. “But I have learned to appreciate _hours_ spent on the bridge as foreplay.”

A tender pinch in the soft part of Michael’s shoulder rewards her and the pleasurable sensation reminds her she has not touched Philippa nearly as much as she craves it.

Avoiding the mid to lower area, her right hand settles on the small of her back, pushing encouragingly before massaging subtly. The swell of her breast welcomes Michael’s eager hand and her lips part in a wordless request.

Michael grins and traces the softness, feeling her nipples hard under the fabric, “It seems I was not the only one yearning.”

“Does it come as such a surprise?” Philippa’s voice flutters up with uncertainty.

Michael wonders. They have talked a great deal since that night and laid out many of their insecurities, from Michael’s need for protection to her distaste of duvet. Philippa’s constant need to monitor her feelings, their expression, for fear of influencing her came up, but it remained a discussion, and Michael was content to luxuriate in their new found intimacy for a while.  

And now…

“I crave you all the time,” Philippa whispers and the light, swift pressure of her lips on hers takes Michael unaware.

“I trust you.”

A kiss drops in the crease above her chin.

“I follow you.”

Her mouth finds the divot between her collarbones.

“And I l—“

Michael stops her hands as they are grasping the edge of her top.

“Sorry. Hands, first. I am covered in cooling fluid.”

The sound that comes out of Philippa’s throat is not Human, possibly Tellarite, and Michael finds sweet relief in seeing her impatience thus reflected.

She silences her frustration on Philippa’s demanding lips and scurries to the ready room to clean herself, cursing against reality.

As she fumbles for the captain’s wet wipes, Michael tries to piece together a canvas of her desire, the specificities unearthed within the constraints and choices of their relationship. Their life of exploration and peril spreads out at Human scale, skin deep, and opens a window into herself that she can look into with only curiosity and emotion. Presently, sex on the job, not as vacation from her post on shore leave, is a reality within reach.

Sex as not merely a mutually enjoyed activity, but as a form of communication and pure celebration of pleasure.

It is fascinating. No. _Exciting_.

Beyond the stimulation Philippa brings her and the emotional shifts she requires of her, the privilege of finding someone equally curious and bold, but with a different, wider perspective, is a constant source of gratefulness for Michael.

May there never be a moment when Michael will suggest something foolish, even by Human standards, and Philippa will refuse to embrace it.

Yet, the moment she comes back to the bridge, the vision of Philippa admiring the light from warp speed stops her dead on her tracks.

Noticing Michael, Philippa extends a hand in her direction, as if for a dance.

“Are you sure you want this? Sneaking out is just as fun.”

Her _guts_ and Philippa’s grin are suggesting otherwise.

Michael’s voice echoes almost proud on the empty bridge, “Here? Without question.”

Where Starfleet means everything, since it matters so much, and where she can overpower that meaning and replace it by Philippa.

“I want you so much,” she resumes, words softer.

The straightforwardness of her declaration draws a shaky breath from Philippa, as impatience and raw affection fight briefly on her face, all for Michael to admire, freely given, and Michael tilts her head, marveling at the wonders of the heart.

The dark eyes set on her are keen, appreciative, and Michael pictures herself, hair and clothes in just as much disarray as Philippa’s, drenched in oil and sweat, exhausted and impatient.

For all the discomfort this evening has carried, it now seems evident that Philippa, in her like-mindedness, has experienced the same ferocious attraction for this state of chaos and urgency, even if she is better equipped to approach it. Witnessing its effects on her is stunning.

Philippa draws closer in long, assured strides, until she presses flush against Michael.

“How martial of you.” Her affected exclamation would be comical if it was not so arousing. “Should I be worried about rebellion?”

Michael tilts her head, revelling in Philippa’s breath across her face. “Only if Starfleet tries to take you away from me.”

“ _Commander_ ,” Philippa’s voice is low and warm in her ears when she teases, “You can just admit breaking rules turns you on.”

Michael can feel her mouth, dry with desire, curving into a smile and then, fervent, on Philippa’s lips.

Around them, the panels are buzzing with life, singing their litany of numbers as the computer reviews the systems, one by one, barely registering when, after a chaotic waltz between terminals, Michael and Philippa crash into one.

Now clean, her hands are roaming the expanse of Philippa’s skin under her shirt, pressing into her warm back, skating the shape of her muscles, in a frantic attempt to experience everything they have missed for the past week. Unable to leave her flesh long enough to get Philippa out of her uniform, she explores.

And there is so much to do, from the sport undershirt tucked in to the high-waisted slacks.

Philippa is handling her task more deftly, taking advantage of Michael’s initial state of undress. She gets her in briefs and bra so efficiently, so _distractingly_ , that Michael only just registers the captain has irreverently hoisted her on Saru’s desk to pull down her trousers. Her boots hit the floor with a loud thump but, between the computers, the hum of the _Shenzhou_ in flight and their elated breaths, the bridge is far from silent.

Michael has hardly made a dent into her front zip that Philippa is already raking her hand across her naked thighs, admiring her work.

“I take back what I said,” she appreciatively rumbles. “Dress code is an affront to your beauty.”

The overt cheekiness in her tone, deep and secure, spurs Michael’s desire, and she leans forward in challenge. Her teeth graze Philippa’s lips and playfully bite down, monitoring pleasure on her face, in her breathing, the infinite variations she is still cataloguing. Philippa answers in kind, forgetting everything to cradle her face in her hands and deepen the kiss.

Michael could burn on the spot so imperative is the need to bring her closer, to taste her deeper.

After overcoming many interferences, her fingers find the hem of the shirt, and Michael triumphantly pulls the shirt over her head. In her impatience, she stumbles down the desktop, going straight for the soft stretch of skin suddenly revealed, and fails to properly disengage Philippa’s hair.

“Here, let me,” Michael tries not to grumble.

She walks behind Philippa and swiftly unknots the loose waves caught in the top. Philippa’s standard issue grey bra does not last and joins the shirt with the rest of their clothes beside the Captain’s chair.

From behind, the angle is unusual, but her breathing hitches at the sight of the tempting, heaving chest.

Philippa’s hand trails down to Michael’s palm and wraps her arms around her, her back pressed into Michael’s nearly naked torso. The position is comfortable, _warm_ ; the temperature on the bridge has long since dropped to its average level, and Michael is sensitive to the cold. Above, the viewscreen blinks at them, the only consistent source of light on the off-line bridge, and its repetitive patterns in warp-speed offers a pleasing backdrop.

Philippa heaves a sigh, “This is nice.”

“You are predictable,” Michael murmurs into her ear.

“You like that too.”

Michael leans into her back, letting her catch the stream of light pouring from reality, and isolates bit by bit the sensation of the breathing against her chest, of the warm skin inside her folded arms, of the nails tracing patterns on her.

Unrushed, she presses light kisses against Philippa’s spine, the juncture of her shoulders, fervent as she tastes traces of salt and sweat there. Her teeth trail nimbly over the skin, without haste, while her hand draws up to cup her left breast. Philippa hums, satisfied, and Michael remembers they do not have time to get comfortable.

The thought only makes her keener.

Going from a culture of rules to another, she welcomes as an epiphany the fight to merely hold hands in the dim corners of the _Shenzhou_. The rule book is hers to write for once. This is akin to a revolution, and Michael has no idea what to make of her excitement.

Standing on her toes, she cranes her neck to take a nip at her jaw, calling Philippa back to order.

“Who knew breaking rules would have such an effect on you?” Philippa marvels.

“From where I am standing, you are more of a rule-breaker than I am, _Captain_. Naked on the bridge?”

Her exclamation rings clear, aroused and outraged, “Half!”

Michael grins into her hair. Deliberate, her right hand skids from Philippa’s hipbone to her lower abdomen and, parting the half open zip, treads across her Starfleet issue underwear to palm the wet heat through the fabric.

Philippa hisses and Michael smirks.

“I broke more cardinal rules in the past, Number One.”

Michael’s other hand draws wide concentric circles across her chest, until it finds a pebbled, alert nipple.

“Does this mean you have previously engaged in such behavior?” Michael twists, and Philippa gasps, trembling. “I am _appalled_.”

“Inap--propriate line of questioning.”

Across Philippa’s underwear, her fingers are light at first, drumming and hovering.

“How so? Discussing bridge habits is the way to a rewarding collaboration.”

“Nee-- need a chart?”

Imperious as Philippa bucks to increase the pressure. The roll of her hips against her pelvis takes Michael by surprise and drives her into the nearest desk. Michael hushes, entreating her to slow down.

“I would be content to know this will not hurt you in any manner,” she mumbles.

“I trust you,” Philippa pants and lets Michael settle more comfortably against the desk, hers opportunely. Looking over her shoulder to squint affectionately at her, she adds, “And I know what I am doing.”

Michael simply lifts her eyebrow and guides her between her legs by the hipbone, keeping her hand busy with round and sharp lines along the inside of her thigh. Her other hand leaves her breast and skims slowly the back of her trousers. In one swift gesture, she tugs them down, caressing the exposed flesh, the familiar curves.

“Any advice or request?”

A contented purr is the only response she gets for a moment.

“Jacket on the chair under you.” With a sigh, Philippa steps reluctantly out of the fallen trousers, her slippers still on. “That thing is uncomfortable even when used right.”

“Do you plan to get me on the chair, _Captain_?”

Philippa peeks at her, proud of herself, “If it pleases you.”

Michael burrows into her hair to hide her anticipation, savouring the task beforehand, the increased tightness in her belly.

Her left hand cups Philippa’s breast, resuming her teasing, and her lips travel the length of Philippa’s neck, nipping, grazing. She must have hit a nerve just under her hairline because Philippa arches cruelly into her and Michael grins before relocating all ressources to that particular spot.

Each little cry and involuntarily jerk is a confession, of how much she trusts Michael, how much she is gifting her. Her head rolls back against Michael’s shoulder, angling to nuzzle her neck, to whine quietly close to her heart, and Michael takes it as a cue to edge closer to the hem of her underwear.

“How may I help?” Michael asks nonchalantly, but her mouth is dry.

Philippa growls, “Your fingers past that bloody band.”

And Michael obeys to the letter, discarding the fabric with a twist and drawing a faint cry from Philippa as her fingers splay across her heat. Her work along Philippa’s entrance starts strategic and precise, drawing across the ridges of flesh, teasing her in pointed touches, never resting, never pressing long enough.

The conversation about how much Philippa enjoys outright torture during foreplay comes back to her, jubilant, obstinate, and the feelings submerge her at once.

Through the tensed, childish frown of her brow, she knows Philippa’s patience is wearing thin.

“Oh, you—”

“— _love_ this.”

But the pressure applied in return to her front and her breasts is becoming unbearable, and she cannot even her thighs together to distract her throbbing core. So she focuses on Philippa. Parting her folds, Michael caresses the slick flesh on each side, then closer and slides in at last, drawing a sharp breath from Philippa.

She pushes herself up, grinding against Michael, ruthless.

“I said _fingers,_ ” she breathes, indignant.

It would have drawn a snicker from Michael had she not been about to explode herself.

Michael tsks and presses the heel of her hand into her pubic bone, savouring her protracted cry as reward. She adds another finger, and from Philippa’s lips escapes a string of small, tender words, that go through her like waves.

Her hips rock against Michael’s hand, steady, meeting each stroke, and Michael accompanies her, pressed into Philippa’s back, drawing her into a subtle, slow rhythm. When she lends her strength and precision to Philippa’s pleasure, building it around and inside her, sharp and long, she feels part of a whole. She can close her eyes and draw breath after breath with her, provide current to her rocking body, follow her joy on her voice.

Michael angles her hand and hooks her thumb up to tease her clit, but Philippa’s whimper comes as a warning now is not the time yet. The heel of her hand presses encouragingly on her pubis, her fingers move fast and curving inside her.

Something tells Michael that Philippa is mingling languages; the universal matrix has troubles keeping up, but an incoherent Philippa fills her with joy, presently.  

Feeling inspired, Michael’s hand flies to her breast but immediately receives a gentle weight, unexpected. Philippa’s hand on hers. Their fingers twine in the hollow of her sternum, heart drumming close, breath flowing closer. Pulling her hand down to rest across her hipbone, Philippa grounds Michael into her. It does more for her than the careful, increasingly erratic grinding against her core, the endless call of her name — _Michael, Michael, Michael_ — overtaken by breaths more and more.

Building up speed, Michael feels alive, feels boundless, feels loved. She lets the feelings become solid.

The spot beneath her ear tastes of athenarium and space is blossoming in front of her.

Philippa’s voice is already breaking when she entreats, trembling, mellow, “Michael, now.”

Michael smiles, “I thought you’d never ask.”

It takes little to push Philippa over the edge, taut as she is, a series of practised, irregular flicks over her clit and her teeth around her collarbone.

Philippa falls with a cry and Michael catches her.

Her body stills and jerks, releasing tension so promptly that it always scares Michael a little, but the beating of her heart is strong under her hand and the pulsing of her core stronger. As she guides her through her climax, Michael nudges her throat, gently as not to overstimulate her, and takes note of the flush of her cheek and chest, the sweat pearling on her jaw and throat.

Insignificant manifestations that she wants to enclose, but not immortalize; Philippa taught her of loving what is changing and fleeing, and Michael loves her.

Barely standing, Philippa wriggles for Michael to give her space and Michael retreats with a last stroke to her sex, allowing her to pivot and cuddle up to her, wordlessly. Within the soundbox formed by their chest and neck, Philippa’s shallow breaths come in loud and irresistible, prompting her desire to flare again after the onslaught of emotions.

Her smell. Her exhilaration. Her heart. Her confidence. Her skin. Her devotion. Their parameters known and written down. Michael loses herself in the reality of the causes and effects. Even the full weight of Philippa in her arms as she rests and regains her balance, even the soreness of her hand and the awkward pressure across her lower back where she leans into the desk.

Against her chest, Philippa draws a sharp breath and dazedly leans back to meet her gaze, infinitely tender, “Thank you.”

Bowing her head slightly, she whispers, “Thank _you_ for letting me.”

“Now…” Philippa lets out a low hum, half arousal, half challenge, that shoots straight to her core, “Please, allow me”.

Still warm and trembling, Philippa dips her head and places a gentle kiss over her clavicles, the base of her throat, behind her ear, knowing how Michael tastes scarcity.

Eyes planted into hers, she picks up Michael’s hand on her shoulder and applies her lips against her wrist. Then the flesh of her palm. Precise pressure points overwhelming her senses, one kiss after the other. When her tongue runs hot on the side of her palm, inside, Michael’s breath stutters in her lungs, caught in the varied sensations.

“I need more.”

Philippa kisses the side of her index finger and takes it between her lips. Tendrils of pleasure run from her fingertips to her spine, leaving her alight and vacillating.

In the fog of her mind, it does not escape her that she has completely forgotten about the time constraints under which they work, but Philippa’s work is entrancing, delicate and measured. Her expertise extends to knowing exactly how long Michael’s satiation will require, surely. It is a dance now, open-mouthed across her body, nipping and sucking, and Michael climbs onto the nearest desk to give her better access to her still painfully clothed breast, to experience more fully her body coiled around hers.

“Fuck.”

Philippa’s curse snaps her out of her trance and Michael follows, half dazed, the blind keyboard entry to cancel a command.

Repressing a chuckle, Michael teases, “How indecorous, _Captain.”_

“Keep the snark for later when you are not buttcalling Admiral Terral,” Philippa mutters as she tries to read the screen upside down and types carefully.

Michael snake a hand in the back of her underwear and tugs her closer, commanding. “More important matters at hands.”

Philippa’s cheeks give her the courtesy of flushing faintly.

She pulls Michael into a gentle kiss, before looking into her eyes and running a sharp finger over her ribs, just under her bra. She draws out the delicious sensation, past her sides, across her back and with a capable flick unfastens the clasp.

Michael heaves a sigh and melts into Philippa’s touch, her hands solid over her breasts.

“All done,” Philippa pipes up and, mischievous, drops a quick kiss above her nipple, causing Michael to squeak out of surprise. Michael’s aspiration breaks into a small cry as Philippa scratches the back of her neck.

A disgruntled sound leaves Michael as Philippa retreats from her, but Philippa hushes her, affectionately.

“Now, believe me, I have greater ambitions.”

Taking Michael’s hand, Philippa eases Michael off the desk and guides her backwards toward the Captain’s chair. Michael’s breath hitches when her eyes fall on the seat across which Philippa is laying her sweater. With her foot, Philippa arranges her trousers under the chair, not departing of Michael’s hand.

“May I have the pleasure?” Philippa gestures towards the chair, charming.

With reverence, she gently sits Michael and takes a step back. Her darkened eyes rake her body, lingering at want, and smiling, and _grateful_. Michael will combust from the heaviness of her breath only, the persistent throb between her legs.

The metallic surface has cooled down from the sweltering heat of the bridge already, but Michael suspects she would welcome the colder temperature under her palms. She is trembling, her fingers clutching at the arms of the chair like vices.

Philippa, her confident smile still in place, bends to nibble on her bottom lip, escaping Michael’s mouth to follow her jaw the moment Michael tries to kiss her back. A muffled laugh answers her frustrated growl, lips pressed so close to her ear that Michael instinctively grabs the back of Philippa’s head to yank her into the chair, into her.

Standing, Philippa loses her footing and places her hands on each side of Michael on the chair before giving up and lowering herself, nudging Michael’s legs open to kneel against her.

Their arms tangle when Michael tries to frame Philippa’s face while Philippa wraps around her in a not so clear attempt to get to her torso. Philippa rubs her nose struck in the tangle before reaching for Michael’s temple, mirroring her grave study.

“You are beautiful,” she whispers, full of awe.

Michael tilts her head and tuts, “And you are still wearing your shoes and underwear.”

Philippa snorts just above her heart and turns a cheek against her skin to keep her seriousness, quickly segueing into a slow, painstaking exploration of Michael’s neck and upper torso. As Philippa’s hands resume their slow circling of her breasts, Michael drags her hands down her fine back, the hard line of muscles at work, the soft black waves.

“Saru probably called Starfleet High Command twice already,” she remarks idly, feeling her body tense with anticipation.

Philippa looks up, teasingly, and without a warning goes straight to Michael’s right nipple, taking it fully in her mouth, rolling the bud under her tongue, while her hand skids feather light across her skin toward her other breast.

Michael gasps, “Uh-unfair. You skipped.”

Philippa releases her just enough to whisper, “Did I? It seems you need to wield more authority on your bridge, _Commander_.”

The low register makes Michael involuntarily squeeze her behind, prompting a playful suck on her nipple. Philippa’s mouth works around her finely, expertly, driving Michael desperate with gentleness, and Michael digs her fingers into her neck.

When Michael thinks she cannot sustain this any longer, Philippa’s left hand abandons her breast and travels down her ribs, skirting her stomach, sparking Michael’s need in renewed, calculated bursts. They have mapped so well each other’s pleasure at this point.

She traces a line between her breasts, down to her abdominal muscles, up and down, eyes locked into hers, teasing, and then starts licking down, from her clavicles to her stomach, lighting a rod of pleasure across her body, from her neck to her core. Michael arches into the touch, panting, painfully gripping the chair.

“Yes, darling?” comes the innocent inquiry.

Philippa has comfortably settled in the hollow of her stomach, her bangs tickling her navel, a contented sigh warming her hips. Michael is wondering how she could possibly experience a higher temperature than forty minutes ago while the bridge was on fire when she feels a kiss in the crook of her groin. She whimpers.

“What do you want, Michael?” Philippa asks, head resting on Michael’s thigh.

Michael can barely pushes the words past her lips, “Get down, now, please.”

Philippa quirks an eyebrow, amused.

“Oh, really, and what if someone walks in?”

Michael snarls and a quick kiss presses against her lips. Precise, Philippa shifts back, grabs under Michael’s knees and tugs her closer to the edge.

Later, she will be eternally grateful to Philippa for showing more restraint than her and securing the sweater under her or carefully putting her underwear within reach. But in the moment, Michael is out of her depths.

The instant her captain takes a step back to ease her out of her underpants, hands lightly travelling up and down her calves, her lips never far behind, wet and wide where the nails have been sharp and ghosting, Michael loses her ability to plan anything past enjoying Philippa’s next move on her body. She is vaguely aware that they are on the bridge and that she should be worried, but the thought only makes the burning sensation at the pit of her stomach greater.

Michael calls her name with a hint of menace and Philippa blows into the crook of her hip, causing Michael to fold on herself, palm cradling that beloved head. The sensation of her lover’s hair brushing against her lower stomach and hips, her nose edging closer and closer, deliberate in its restraint and nudging, draws a keening, desperate sound out of her that she struggles to convert into words.

“Now-ow, Philippa.”

Philippa’s head whips back, her eyes briefly winking and she says, voice soft, “Your wish is my command.”

The temperature at her core seems to have reached its peak, to the extent that Philippa pressing her lips to her sex feels like a reprieve. That is, until she starts licking her up and down in wide strokes, ending with gentle flicks around her clit. Spreading her, sucking and pulling.

Michael squeezes her eyes shut, “Oh, Stars, Philipp— _aah_.”

Drawing out her pleasure in exact tug, never departing of her tenderness, pulling Michael higher and higher, at the same time anchoring her, firmly. Michael bows and slips, and Philippa tightens her grip around her legs, pushing her back into the chair.

“In, please,” she commands.

Philippa’s tongue draws her entrance gingerly before deepening their exploration and Michael rides the cresting waves with ever growing cries.

At some point, the sharp pain in her left hand informs her that her erratic movements combined with her inability to find satisfying purchase on the seat has led to her palm crashing on the unforgiving angles. Philippa secures one hand in her hair and the other between her fingers on Michael thigh in no time.

“—ppa. More,” Michael calls blindly.

Philippa’s mouth is replaced by fingers, deft, stronger and deeper, and Philippa repositions herself to gaze firmly into Michael’s eyes. The look on her face…

Openness. Trust. Free.

“You are so beautiful, Michael.” Philippa rolls her clit between her fingers, and smiling, brings the pressure to a rupture point. “Now you can let go.”

Space opens before Michael. Properly.

Michael thrashes and calls, boundless, almost toppling off the chair again, but something grounds her, solid against her abdomen, around her waist. Adamant, that same weight maintains her on her high for a little longer, and her body undulates again and again, welling. Pleasure recedes progressively, and for a breathless minutes her muscles do not ache yet. It will always be incomprehensible to her that such a release of the body could lead to such a release of the mind. That she should seek it as much as she does. With Philippa.

Even in her blind, overwhelmed attempt at settling back into her body and brain, Philippa is here. Secured in a tight embrace, face pressed against her ribcage and watching her elatedly.

“You were amazing,” she breathes across her sternum.

Michael can only exhale loudly and draw her into her lap to capture her lips, slack with bliss. The temptation is great to remain here and cuddle, because as the heat of her skin subsides it appears more and more evident that the bridge has cooled down. And they are naked.

As Michael starts elbowing her to move on, Philippa leans back to trace the shape of her jaw and rests her hand across her neck, anchoring her gaze in hers.

“I am so grateful for you, Michael,” she says slowly. “For every moment. Off and on the bridge.”

Michael blinks, savouring the declaration, assessing its effects against her heart. She feels she gets to be this version of herself, dear to Philippa, precisely because of Philippa and she does not quite know how to explain it to her.

“As I am, for you,” Michael answers.

A quiet, wet laugh escapes Philippa’s lips, and she squints at her, expression bare and content. Michael does not have the time to properly commit it to memory before Philippa lifts herself and twists her neck to look over to the nearest terminal.

“The integrity scan has two minutes to go, with the parameters I set. Saru will not worry.” After a beat: “That much.”

Michael shoots her an accusatory look, “You knew exactly what you were doing, Philippa.”

Neither of them is standing straight when they get back to their feet, still wrapped in each other.

“Rule twenty-seven of command,” Philippa banters. Untangling her arms from Michael, she picks up her clothes on the chairs, Michael’s, and staggers to where her bra has ended in the middle of the bridge.

“Always keep an eye on the time?” Michael shivers, accepting her underpants from Philippa.

“Keep your First officer satisfied.” Philippa puts on her sweater, shoving her bra into her pocket. Her eyes crease impishly. “Any longer and the excitement would have turned into fear of getting caught.”

Michael opens her mouth, taken aback.

She feels safe. Here, naked in the middle of the bridge, travelling far beyond the speed of light, she feels utterly safe. And she understands her heart: the call of danger is only appealing to the extent where she trusts the people around her, to protect her, to catch her. And Philippa does.

Still, she is thankful for the guaranteed ninety seven percent insonorisation of the bridge.

Philippa is already almost impeccable, even if conspicuously barefoot and disheveled. Michael wonders where she picked up such techniques. A hand on her hip, she grins, “Keeping a straight face when asking for all hands on deck will be a challenge.”

“Or an invitation,” Michael shoots back as Philippa helps her into her trousers, before jogging away to retrieve her boots. “I look forward to returning the favour.”

The proposition seems to stun Philippa for a moment, or she is merely reliving the events of this evening, as Michael can detect the slightest tint of red on her ears.

Pursing her lips, she shakes her head while smoothing Michael’s collar, “On the holodeck then. I am not prepared to blow up part of my ship every time my paramour requires attention.”

Michael quirks her eyebrow, “I did not say anything about requiring, Captain. I have plenty to give.”

Philippa rolls her eyes and leans in, bringing Michael’s fingers to her mouth and caressing the end with her lips.

Her hair, a joyous mess of waves where the hairband has slid, tangled at the end, smells of sweat, ozone and Philippa’s distinctive aroma.

The realization she can pinpoint it so accurately fills her with wonder, a consuming sense of comfort and security that makes her believe she can see through space without the need of a telescope; and Michael dives in, burying her head in the crook of Philippa’s neck where the perfume is strong and all around her.

Starfleet is a door to knowledge and infinite beauty in constant shifting, a rule that will dictate and feed and ground her until her dying day. But Philippa is a world in herself, like looking at the universe from the inside of a soap bubble, and flying and twirling doing so. Michael never feels freer than when she is with Philippa.

Because she is allowed, encouraged to explore whatever she is, even the traits that she fears most.

Philippa’s tap on her upper back draws her out of her daze.

“Michael, unless you want to set fire to Connor’s post as further distraction, we will need to move on.”

Michael groans.

“Depriving officers of interpersonal intimacy, if they enjoy it, is detrimental to the moral of the crew. Not one full night, in a month.”

“Let me talk to Saru and check on the bridge. Join me in my room in five? I’m exhausted and really sore but cuddling is still within my capabilities. Protocols can go where the sun doesn’t shine if I’m not spending the night with you.”

“Aye, Aye, Sir.”


	4. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could not help it.

“Commander Burnham!”

Michael jumps out of her skin at Saru’s cry, but she reins herself in quickly enough, disguising her startled motion as the impulse pushing her from the door to the aggravated Kelpien.

His face displays such a mixture of irritation and worry that Michael is tempted to deflect the awaited reprimand with a come-back, but that would mean opening the hostilities and leaving her side vulnerable to probing.

“I asked you what happened last night since the Captain’s account was not exactly forthcoming with details, not that I would disparage her brevity, but…” His eyes squint, suspicious. “Clearly I should be asking what is happening right now.”

“The heating was not at fault, Commander,” Michael answers, voice level, concealing as she could her guardedness, and much more the senior officer would take far worse than a defunct piece of machinery on the bridge.

“A leak from the second viewing screen cooling system reached the new borium-based shield panel, causing a heating reaction. The product was only steam and nothing was damaged. We ran the appropriate scans.”

Horror and a fair amount of disdain paint the Kelpien’s features as realization dawns on him.

“The bridge was turned into a chemical sauna,” he concludes, stricken.

“The bridge was turned into a chemical sauna,” she confirms. “I already presented my report to Touko, Commander. She assured me the check-up will include the bridge component isolation.”

Saru’s resigned nod breaks and he gives her a sharp side glance.

“Why did we have to fight with the computer for almost an hour before the doors opened?”

“Captain’s order. We conducted tests to check the integrity of the bridge before leaving.” She eyes him severely, perhaps too much given his genuine concern, but anything is better than showing guilt. “I am sure you and the Alpha shift were satisfied with our repairs.”

From the corner of her eye, she can see both Keyla and Januzzi have been reading the same screen for the past two minutes. Saru’s investigation now has an audience.

“Your heart rate, as well as the Captain’s, was extremely elevated,” he dryly observes.

Michael offers her most emphatic eyebrow raise.

“You monitored us, Commander?”

“I was  _ worried _ .”

He most likely was, but the reason for his current probing is not worry.

“You would be wise to clean under your desk more often. Finding anything down there was difficult and the space much too tight for quick maintenance.”

A loud snort erupts from behind her, probably Januzzi, and Michael lifts her chin in defiance, but the Kelpien remains none the wiser, hand held in a pensive attitude beside his face.

“The logs indicate you tried to contact the Admiralty.”

“The heat affected many components, Mr. Saru. A call was accidentally initiated, but we cancelled it.”

Michael is fairly sure the loud scan Gant has just launched is a poor attempt at covering snigger.

Her deep sigh would be a dead giveaway to anyone else, but Saru’s fear of being left out seems to trump his judgement for the moment. 

“What about the inactive sensors?”

“Probably down as well. We merely took care of the heating issue.”

The laughter does not come this time, making her fear the worst for her first step on the bridge.

“If you do not mind, Commander,” she carries on, letting her exasperation show, “I would suggest you redirect all remaining questions toward our chief engineer who has been working on the incident ever since we vacated the bridge. We need to get to that shipyard sooner rather than later and I have authorization to check on.”

Saru’s face contorts imperceptibly, but he does not debate her. With what Michael has learned to identify as Saru’s brand of petulance, he bows his head and gestures with a flourish that Michael has the deck.

When Michael turns to step onto the bridge at last, she is greeted by three very different faces: Keyla, with an aggressively proud smile; Januzzi, biting back his laughter so furiously that tears are starting to form in his eyes and Jira, unreadable under her tactical helmet, yet managing to convey a long-suffering look in data form.

“Officers, good morning,” she pipes menacingly.

Purposefully avoiding the Captain’s chair, Michael picks up a brisk pace to her terminal and starts working, only to be interrupted by the internal chat log opening on her screen.

Not one officer shows signs of paying attention to her, which means they probably are frustratingly aware of her.

Michael heaves a sigh and accepts the message.

It is from Jira’s ID and reads:

_ As long as you didn’t accidentally change my desktop environment, you do you, respectfully, Sir. _


End file.
